And yet for all that— It got into Ann Veronica’s nights at last and kept her awake, the perplexing contrast between the advanced thought and the advanced thinker. Once a sick sailor drew three pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and sail—square-rigger, schooner, and sloop. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him.
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