Wood. It is dull—deadly dull. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. . Anna suddenly leaned forward and looked around her. . Ann Veronica had come down thinking of nothing in the world but her inflexible resolution to go to the dance in the teeth of all opposition. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. Lord, I am sixty.
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