“Well, I do. The gong will go at seven-thirty. The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass.
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