It wasn’t. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Hollo rumbled in his throat. Ann Veronica sat back with a sigh of relief. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. “Call me Annabel. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand. She would just have to show up and hope for the best. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind.
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