“It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. "The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. “Perhaps you will help me shuffle?” Ann Veronica did, and also assisted nimbly with the arrangements of the rows of eight with which the struggle began. You tonic my liver and you tonic my soul.
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