The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. Ah! I shall never forget the figure Jack cut on that occasion. ” True summer descended like a sticky fever upon August’s arrival, bringing with it miasmas of humidity that seemed to hang from the trees like mucus. That was odd: when young people were joyous, they had to express it physically. “Queer letters he writes,” she said.
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