” A dull flush burned upon his cheeks. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Anna felt that her words had become charged with a fuller and more subtle meaning than any which she had intended to impart. But it's an odd case.
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