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“My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. ” “There is so much I have not told you, John. I hate what I have to do to survive. He flung open the door and cast a quick glance round. He relayed many details of the location and the beautiful rivers of her home, a subject she never tired of. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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