“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. The place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it. Rhea went down, screeching and clawing at the air for the sword, which clanked heavily on the ground. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. 1.
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