It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. I'm nearly nabbing you. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry.
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