’ ‘Yes, but if it is only we that know, it is of no use at all to me. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. Ann Veronica decided that “hoydenish ragger” was the only phrase to express her.
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