He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. That would be him. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. Plote was sleeping or deaf. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. I'll repay you. None presented themselves to save him from that return.
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