"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. My people don’t know what to do. “I wonder,” said Ann Veronica at last, “if I am beautiful? I wonder if I shall ever shine like a light, like a translucent goddess?— “I wonder— “I suppose girls and women have prayed for this, have come to this—In Babylon, in Nineveh. I—well, I lost my temper. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. We are not animals. Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day.
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