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Flora herself, book in hand, red shawl on her arms, enters Collinwood with a cheery, "Hello?!" She runs into the drawing room, smiling, and finds Gabriel, who wishes her good morning. She's startled to see him and gasps, then says she doesn't know what to you--she supposes it's the excitement--a migraine, isn't it typical. He nods. And my horoscope promised me a triumphant day, she complains, sounding rather like a disappointed little girl--and then a migraine, just as I was stepping into my carriage--is he here? she asks, smiling girlishly. Is who here? asks Gabriel sourly. The healer, she says. You give the most improbably names to the most improbable people, says Gabriel, what is that? My new novel, she says, presenting it to him--isn't it GLORIOUS? I don't know, I haven't read it yet, he says, examining it--did you bring it for me? No, not exactly, she says hesitantly, but you must read it, though--it's by far my best work--I do hope the critics notice. A SUMMER'S DEATH, he reads. In three parts, adds Flora, the book, not the death--it's an ironic title--it's a story about love, a love that endures until the lovers die.[/spoiler]