A wedding procession turned the corner. I shall want you. . Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Ann Veronica readjusted her chin on her hand. Sometimes I think you would have been much better off if you had been born in death-worshipping Egypt instead of in the Fourteenth Century. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. Teddy was the hatless young man who had turned Ann Veronica aside from the Avenue two days before.
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