Supper was over. The stairs creaked as Mark rushed down them. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face.
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