She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible. . . “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel.
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