So she built a shrine. Enschede—that's a queer name. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. Brendon was silent. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow.
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