She often found herself absorbed by watching the tall grass undulate from the cave’s central doorway as solitary hunters prowled for buffalo and stag on the plain. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. You have spoken her name, I think, Marthe. But it annoyed Ann Veronica. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury.
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