“If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. ‘I do not mind to pray, no. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. All make the same answer—'d—n you, keep it. ’ Quick anger flared, surpassing the fluttering hope. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. " "Don't say so," cried Mrs.
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