" "Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Melusine shrieked an imprecation, and ran the length of the aisle, searching for the weapon she had thrown.
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