“Frightful lot of things aren’t settled,” said Ann Veronica. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day.
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