Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. While the watermen were contending with the eddies occasioned by the fall below the bridge, Jonathan observed a perceptible shudder run through Trenchard's frame. “You permitted me then to call you my friend. “Ann Veronica,” he said, “I tell you this is love. It isn’t the same thing.
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