“So you come from Anna, do you?” she remarked. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. There was one verse that haunted and mocked her. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. ” Ann Veronica meditated over that phrase.
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