Eating him while he was at the end of a heroin binge left her sleepy and dazed. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. Anna made things for her. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. All in a moment. “One runs about,” said Ann Veronica.
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