Part 4 At eight that evening Miss Stanley tapped at Ann Veronica’s bedroom door. I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. “I’m just off, aunt,” said Ann Veronica. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously.
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