“My sister and I,” she said slowly, “have seen very little of each other lately. “You delicate female!” “Who cares,” said Ann Veronica, “seeing it’s you? Warm, soft little wonders! Of course I want them. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper.
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