She turned back to Gerald, holding out her hand. ‘I’ll take wine,’ the lady said briefly, turning back instantly to Hilary. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. But we get over it.
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