Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. But, being pushed forward by his subordinate officer, he was compelled to make a stand. She felt her own body stir, ready for more. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat.
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