Perhaps she was. Ann Veronica wiped a scalpel, put a card over a watch-glass containing thin shreds of embryonic guinea-pig swimming in mauve stain, and dismantled her microscope. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. Suddenly, she heard the crunch of new feet on the gravel. I am your servitor. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks.
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