‘A word, if you please, my friend. His tone was kind and sympathetic. The likeness was ridiculous. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. But I do not love you. He was unusually absurd and ready, and all the time it seemed to Ann Veronica as a delightful possibility, as a thing not indeed to be entertained seriously, but to be half furtively felt, that he was being so agreeable because she had come back again. It makes me want to be just everything I CAN be to you.
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