She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. “Dear John,” she whispered. Man or woman. Ann Veronica’s tense nerves started, and she stood still with her eyes upon him, wondering what it might be that impended. It was John Diedermayer, who had been transformed into a young scholar with a large pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses on. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing.
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