The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. “Sooner or later, John, it will come to that. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. I’m rather scornful.
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