Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. “But, dear, think! He is your father. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground.
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