Part 2 Ann Veronica Stanley was twenty-one and a half years old. I don’t want to influence you unduly—But—They’re artistic people, Vee. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. “NOW!” said Ann Veronica. “You could have told me about it, Michelle.
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