“We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. Lost in thought, Lucy barely heard Mrs. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him.
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