” “I think,” Anna said, “that it was only his manner. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. ” “I borrowed it,” said Ann Veronica in a casual tone, with white despair in her heart. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present. . . " "What?" "We'll put those stories back into the trunk and never speak of them to him.
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