” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. This is clear over my head. ” She propped herself up on the massive oaken post of the bed, feeling the paralysis tingle her legs as it left them ever so slowly. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. ’ He sighed. Aren’t I asking—asking plainly now?.
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