“I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter.
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