” “There’s art,” said Ann Veronica, “and writing. They do a good job, huh?” He smiled at her. She was frightfully hungry. They used the rope—not that a rope was at all necessary, but because Ann Veronica’s exalted state of mind made the fact of the rope agreeably symbolical; and, anyhow, it did insure a joint death in the event of some remotely possibly mischance. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. She had agonized over it for weeks. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death.
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