“For seven years,” said Ann Veronica, “I have been trying to keep myself from thinking about love. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. She drank it obediently.
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