She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. “But, you see, appearances are very much against me. "Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup.
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