But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. Love lives on a higher plane.
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