Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. “Very likely,” he answered. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. But it was hopelessly hard to put.
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