It was her past now, not Annabel’s. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes.
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