The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. "Do not despair, my sweet soul," said Wood, in a soothing tone. " "But I'm a poor man. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. I’m a hard young woman. That, I think, is manifest.
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