“She’s my wife,” the man muttered. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. If ever I could bring myself to ask you any favour, I would ask you to forget even as I have forgotten. Cool and sunny, it seemed that God himself smiled upon that day, the sunbeams streaming through the magnificent arches dustily as the priest murmured in soporific Latin.
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