She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. Ann Veronica said nothing. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. This young man did not drink because he sought the false happiness that lured men to the bottle. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly.
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