She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. " "You hear that," whispered Jack.
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