“I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. Ann Veronica decided that “hoydenish ragger” was the only phrase to express her. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. “There ought to be a Censorship of Books.
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