As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. ‘This we will leave. A blow from the iron bar instantly stretched the ruffian on the floor. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “No,” said Ann Veronica, “but I want to know.
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