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She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. His grip twisted her wrist. John, he was between me and the door. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified.
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