“I hate that sound,” Alain said. It was a misery-machine, that was what it was, and it had killed Susan Delgado. And I’m not sure I can even risk doing that again. His voice sounded watery and distant to his own ears.
She’d thrown herself from her bed, gone to her door, opened it, and thrust her head out into the hall. Hart had his mind—what little there was of it—fixed on other matters this summer. The following day, when the marketing took her to town, she had gone by the Travellers’ Rest, which, That Roland’s lost Susan was very close now.
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