“If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. We girls, my sister and I, were left quite alone when our father died, and I made up my mind to make some little place in the world for myself. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. He stared at her breasts while he touched them. It was after all a momentary affair.
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