“Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. Carefully abstaining from thrusting against each other, Ann Veronica and her father began an absurdly desperate struggle, the one to open the door, the other to keep it fastened. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate. She had not noticed such beauty in many years, and it almost caused her to weep. .
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