She gathered stones to place upon the makeshift grave. “Okay. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be. ” Annabel clutched her sister’s hands. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. Ah, no, I have it wrong. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing.
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