It’s not like we’re getting married. She was practically destitute of jewellery. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. She peered into the darkness. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand.
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