“I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. “The first person you love, Ann Veronica, is yourself—get hold of that! The soul you have to save is Ann Veronica’s soul. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward.
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