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ALL HER LIFE Ruth Connelly had feared death by water.
Once, standing as a child at the sea’s edge, foam covering her feet, she had been filled with the sudden knowledge of terror, clear and sharp as the knife her parents sliced bread with.
She held their hands, as water heaved away from her and lunged back again, heavy with intent. Wrinkles of water, glinting where the sun caught them. Diamond fingers, beckoning,
Terrified, she tried to move away, out of its reach, but they urged her forward. Go on, don’t be frightened, it won’t hurt you. Unconvinced, she pulled