Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. “Those were good. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world.
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