, like to forget all about it—even their names. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. “Yes,” said Ann Veronica, trying to think where they were, trying to get things plain again that had seemed plain enough in the quiet of the night.
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