Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Instead, he was bowing to her greataunt. You are always doing something for nothing, and that is why I love you. When I learned you were married, I changed my plans.
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