‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. “Your little flag of pride must flutter down with the rest of them, Ann Veronica. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. I tried it myself, Sir. The place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it.
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