He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. “You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand.
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