” “Yes. ’ ‘Tchah!’ He glared at her. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. Remember that. ” Annabel leaned back in her chair and laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. Your aunt liked the pheasant. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy.
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