The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. Ann Veronica glanced at the mirror to discover a flushed and dishevelled disorder. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. “Never. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. Not at all.
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