If Ann Veronica could have put words to that song they would have been, “Hot-blooded marriage or none!” but she was far too indistinct in this matter to frame any words at all. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. Earles said, “but this is rubbish.
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