Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. 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. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop.
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