She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Chapter XXIII MONTAGUE HILL SEES LIGHT AT LAST At exactly ten minutes past ten Annabel rang the bell of her sister’s flat. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. I promised to put him in touch with some people in Rome, an idea which he warmed to. Maggot. Or I should have made love to you long ago.
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