” He moved himself from the recliner to the couch and patted a cushion. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. I am aware that you ran away from there, but—’ ‘Certainly I ran away,’ she said, meeting his gaze with defiance in her own. “The truth!” It was a moment of awkwardness between the two sisters —a moment, too, charged with its own psychological interest, for there were secrets between them which for many months had made their intercourse a constrained and difficult thing. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love.
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