His face was downcast. “Ann Veronica,” he said, “I tell you this is love. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. They're apt to be surly to strangers, but it soon wears off. Even as a child she observed how men were haunted 18 by the presence of her mother. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back.
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