She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. Annabel is my only sister, you know, almost my only relative. Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. “The man who was found dead in your sister’s room was named Hill?” “It is the man,” she answered.
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