” “There’s art,” said Ann Veronica, “and writing. Nothing at all. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. Then she was turning, ignoring the muttered cursing and the rattling that immediately ensued at the door. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. The only thing they don’t fight over is the addition.
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