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datatime: 2022-12-03 09:45:38 Author:vmoUFddy

He looked at her strangely, almost as though she'd said something obscene.

'Don't blame New York,' he said. 'It can't help itself.'

'I read about it. Tragic.'

'Don't blame New York,' he said. 'It can't help itself.'

'And he was no miracle-worker?'

'Maybe,' she replied, nodding. 'Perhaps what happened to Swann would have happened anyway, wherever we'd been. People keep telling me: it was an accident. That's all. Just an accident.'

'I'd think sometimes-it was a kind of miracle that he let me into his life . . .'

'I'm sorry. My name is Swann, Mr. D'Amour. Dorothea Swann. You may have heard of my husband?'

'But you don't believe it?'

Valentin had appeared with a glass of milk. He set it down on the table in front of Harry. As he made to leave, she said: 'Valentin. The letter?'

'So I did,' she said, conceding his point with an apologetic look. 'Forgive me. That was Swann talking. He hated to be called a magician. He said that was a word that had to be kept for miracle-workers.'

'Did you ever see his performance?'

Harry wanted to say Swann would have been mad not to have done so, but the comment was inappropriate. She didn't want blandishments; didn't need them. Didn't need anything, perhaps, but her husband alive again.

'Now I think I didn't know him at all,' she went on, 'didn't understand him. I think maybe it was another trick. Another part of his magic.'

Valentin had re-appeared, his lugubrious features rife with suspicion. He carried an envelope, which he clearly had no desire to give up. Dorothea had to cross the carpet and take it from his hands.

'I called him a magician a while back,' Harry said. 'You corrected me.'

Harry wanted to say Swann would have been mad not to have done so, but the comment was inappropriate. She didn't want blandishments; didn't need them. Didn't need anything, perhaps, but her husband alive again.

'Maybe,' she replied, nodding. 'Perhaps what happened to Swann would have happened anyway, wherever we'd been. People keep telling me: it was an accident. That's all. Just an accident.'

'I'm sorry. My name is Swann, Mr. D'Amour. Dorothea Swann. You may have heard of my husband?'

'Don't blame New York,' he said. 'It can't help itself.'

'Did you ever see his performance?'

'To Hamburg,' she said, 'I don't like this city. It's too hot. And too cruel.'

'I called him a magician a while back,' Harry said. 'You corrected me.'

'He used to call himself the Great Pretender,' she said. The thought made her smile.

'So I did,' she said, conceding his point with an apologetic look. 'Forgive me. That was Swann talking. He hated to be called a magician. He said that was a word that had to be kept for miracle-workers.'

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