A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place. “You may not leave. In her usual style, she interviewed him for his life and was pleased that he liked nothing more than to talk about himself.
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