She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. . “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. "With all my heart!" replied Wood. Voices floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit.
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