Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. ‘What do you say of these troops?’ ‘You see, we’re militia. But don’t think your heroic milice will save you. Ann Veronica found herself walking back down the Avenue that had just been the scene of her first proposal beside her aunt, and speculating for the first time in her life about that lady’s mental attitudes. I cannot answer that question. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form.
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