It was her past now, not Annabel’s. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. She had omitted that the flu had been called the Black Death and that it was a dead child that had been inside that womb, so many hundreds of years ago. ‘I do not see at all. Her mouth dry, she made her feet walk on, not daring to utter a word. Love and companionship.
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