She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. “LOOKS all right,” said Ann Veronica, regarding him with her head first on one side and then on the other, and trying to be agreeable. Altogether different. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. Wood fared still worse. The horror of those few minutes was still with her. I want you to understand clearly that I was indebted to the man in many small ways.
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