She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. No one in the world is beyond the shaft of scandal— we all catch it terribly sometimes. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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