Manning might go on now idealizing her as much as he liked. He's the only native I trust in these parts. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. That would be him. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary.
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