‘Here we go again. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. " A detective.
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