Their conversation hung. “I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory. "One'd think it rained fares, as well as blowed great guns. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. ‘Now see here, missie.
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