I know my son's voice too well. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. He lost control of the machine. “Mid-thirties. He rose, steadied himself, then walked out of the dining room. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear. She lied.
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