She entered quietly and padded up to her shared bedroom. . Ann Veronica took off her jacket and sat down in the corner chair, and leaned forward to look into the great hazy warm brown cavity of the house, and Ramage placed his chair to sit beside her and near her, facing the stage. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. Supper was over. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack between the door and the frame. “Let us walk across the Park at least,” he said to Ann Veronica. A little exclamation of surprise escaped Ennison. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote.
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