‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. The aunt laughed. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. “It’s the centre of the intellectuals. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. ” It was, Ann Veronica felt, at once absurd and extraordinarily right.
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