“We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. She thought me— filthy. It’s all right. Carefully abstaining from thrusting against each other, Ann Veronica and her father began an absurdly desperate struggle, the one to open the door, the other to keep it fastened. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence.
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