I am not prying for my own amusement. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him.
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