The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. 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. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. She came to befriend the female mistresses, some who were even so audacious as to bring their children into the house. .
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