” Sir John clutched at the table with both hands. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. Then a surge of rage welled up. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. Wood. ” “Then how have you managed?” “Bother!” said Ann Veronica to herself, and tried not to look guilty.
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