We have lived under the same roof, but our ways seem to have lain wide apart. “Your mother was a Gypsy. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world.
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