The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. I was not even sure whether it was loaded. They were headed by an athleticlooking, swarthy-featured man, who was armed with a cutlass, which he waved over his head to cheer on his companions. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. There it is.
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