His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. This one too she read. ‘No need to upset yourself. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. I killed him, Nigel. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. If they become bad it is through inclination, not necessity. Supper was over. It was from Brendon.
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