On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. Once I banged on the door so hard I split it in two. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. And then presently these clouds began to wear thin and expose steep, deep slopes, going down and down, with grass and pine-trees, down and down, and at last, through a great rent in the clouds, bare roofs, shining like very minute pin-heads, and a road like a fibre of white silk-Macugnana, in Italy.
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