“Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. You know the danger of this breakneck road as well as I do. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers.
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