They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. ‘Even the nuns they say I am like a devil. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice. Manning’s feelings, and as Ann Veronica’s mind was still largely engaged with fundamentals and found no pleasure in metrical forms, she had not as yet cut its pages. For yonder went the loneliest man in all God's unhappy world. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish.
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