It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. Only the next of kin. I would even have taken a place as waitress in a tea shop.
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