” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. ” He recognized the force, almost the passion, which trembled in her tone, and he at once abandoned the subject. And, lastly, to the Seven Cities o' Refuge, in the New Mint.
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