‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly.
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