“Yes,” she answered, looking away. The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. Spurling. She loved to be told to do things. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. The clergyman, meanwhile, proceeded with the service, while the coffin was deposited at the brink of the grave.
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