“What can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. Several people were passed out on the sectional sofa, and muffled noises emanated from other rooms indicating that the party’s embers were still smoldering, but John was nowhere to be seen. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream.
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