He dropped the key on the counterpane. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. ‘She didn’t behave in the least like an émigré, if these people are anything to go by. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. Petite build, like herself.
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