“He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. Living’s just material. But it was the form of her ruling determination; it was the only form that she ever allowed to see daylight. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. It’s a sort of guarantee of confidence.
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