"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. Trust you. Ann Veronica pushed aside a tea-cup and the vestiges of her strawberries and cream, and put her elbows before her on the table. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. We had no idea. ” Anna looked at them for a moment with a pitiful attempt at a smile.
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