“I don’t suppose you’ll be able to do it much,” said Ann Veronica. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. ” “Well, he was presumptuous,” Annabel remarked, “and he wasn’t nice about it. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun.
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