But they would not be denied. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. For a time Ann Veronica’s attention was diverted by her aunt’s interest in the salted almonds. Each time that we meet I try to kill you. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals. I do not even know his name.
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