Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. This year—I’ve got it badly. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. I can pull the strings of this stiff-necked puppet as I please. Charvill’s fury was burning out. Let—it—fall.
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