She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. “Well?” he asked her tersely. “The first person you love, Ann Veronica, is yourself—get hold of that! The soul you have to save is Ann Veronica’s soul. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. It’s that father of yours you take after, no question. In fact, the whole face had undergone a transformation.
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