Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. She saw his face change, how he regretted. There was the motor accident, too. You’re going to live under the cat’s foot. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. "You're in danger. They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. A pity, en effet, that she dare not truly desire him to rescue her.
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