Brendon was silent. “Confound sex from first to last!” said Ann Veronica. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. “I don’t take any prisoners, John! You do not want this life!” “Yes I do! I am an adult. It is difficult to express these things. ” And to them were presently added a roguish-looking young man, with reddish hair, an orange tie, and a fluffy tweed suit, and others who, in Ann Veronica’s memory, in spite of her efforts to recall details, remained obstinately just “others.
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