” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. She was new, unlike any other woman he had met in all his wide travel. Don't you see Mr. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave.
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