‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing. I’m not ashamed—of the things I’m doing. Got the tickets? Yes, but then—you said you borrowed?” “I did, too,” said Ann Veronica. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply, coughed as only a Dutchman can cough, and raising his hand from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as the Master. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it. .
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