It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. Families had seen their lands seized, their chateaux ransacked or burned, and those unlucky enough to have failed to anticipate disaster, had been murdered or dragged away to gaol.
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