She HAD cried, Ann Veronica knew. Every one has to make a deal with the world. . Perhaps if I had watched over her more closely, things would have been different. She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. . " "Away with him!" cried Jonathan. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts.
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