Do you think she does?” Ann Veronica picked among her salad with a judicial expression of face. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. “Do you hear!” she said “whatever you are, wherever you are! I will not be slave to the thought of any man, slave to the customs of any time. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed.
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