“But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. How on earth does it concern you?” Annabel laughed hardly. "And now, to your own concerns. "I am here, you see," said the smith. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words.
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