Drink the toast, Jack. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. ‘Have I not said so?’ ‘No, as it happens. “Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty.
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