She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. Cautiously stepping outside, he looked up towards the terrace. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. “I have not left this apartment myself. ” “I like the mystical way better,” said Ann Veronica, and thought. ” She looked at him wistfully, but with some unwilling doubt in her wrinkled forehead.
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