Ann Veronica was one of the few young people—and one must have young people just as one must have flowers—one could ask to a little gathering without the risk of a painful discord. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. “Oh. At Morningside Park I feel as though all my growing up was presently to stop, as though I was being shut in from the light of life, and, as they say in botany, etiolated. The former was shot by Blueskin through the head, and his body fell over the bannisters.
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