She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. The major’s hand stilled. “They ought to have been lopped in the spring. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. C. Ennison,” she said.
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