Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. “To the best of my belief,” she said, with quiet dignity, “I have never seen either of you before in my life. Do you know of what I speak?” “I do, I do!” She said. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. Vorsack rose from the table and departed for the bathroom, mumbling something about a Tylenol. She had agonized over it for weeks.
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