“It was inevitable,” he declared. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. "I do not see him. But the world didn’t do that. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better.
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