Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Capes made a quick movement as if to bite that aggressive digit, but it withdrew to Ann Veronica’s side. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel. “I couldn’t help it. “It makes me feel,” he said, “that nothing is impossible—to have you here beside me. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.
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