She opened the door with a neon colored key. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. “There’s no delusions, so far as I know,” said Ann Veronica. Gosse were you born, and Gosse will you remain to your death. There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut.
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