They had cried a little, both. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. “I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. “He couldn’t look me in the face and say it,” said Ann Veronica. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. This gloom was impossible.
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