There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. She loved to dress the Fritz and Anna in outfits that she stitched from discarded velvet dresses. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. Do you think it’s nothing to me to have my daughter running about London looking for odd jobs and disgracing herself?” “Sha’n’t get odd jobs,” said Ann Veronica, wiping her eyes.
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