It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. She was powerless to move from her chair. “Let me get you some water, Annabel. That’s my advice. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. “We are the species,” said Miss Miniver, “men are only incidents.
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