Lucy sighed, finding it odd to switch roles as she had over the past weeks. “Ann Veronica,” he said, “I tell you this is love. She was in ill trim for walking, but somehow or other she made her way as far as the Champs Elysées, and sank down upon an empty seat. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. Anna was afterwards astonished at her own selfpossession. But her great-aunt was nodding, as if this was what she had expected.
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