“I don’t care what any one thinks,” said Ann Veronica. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football.
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