She HAD cried, Ann Veronica knew. “You are late,” she murmured. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. Drink for him had a queer phase. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. She and her husband have no children and ten computers. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white.
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