“I love you, Ann Veronica. Only a son’s another story. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. He loved you. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. ‘Do you think I could endure to hear you prattling your abominable French in my ear day by day? Enough to drive me straight into my grave.
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