Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. “Only—I have come face to face—with something terrible, and wholly unexpected trouble. “Why don’t they wait?” he added. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. Michelle stood perplexed.
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