An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. Milice,’ Gerald translated. “Annabel;” he moaned.
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