“I don’t suppose you’ll be able to do it much,” said Ann Veronica. “I want an engagement. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. Even the stars were strangers. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground.
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