” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. ” “I was turned shortly after the Pestilence, the plague that they call the Black Death. Sure, I lose one occasionally—if he stays in New York. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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