“Hello?” She asked as she cradled the phone by her ear. “Grail!” said Ann Veronica, and then: “Oh, yes—of course! Anything but a holy one, I’m afraid. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered.
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