” “You can’t be killed?” He asked. I know he is dead. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs. She took it for granted Ann Veronica wore stays—mild stays, perhaps, but stays, and thought no more of the matter. Going involved two things that all Ann Veronica’s tact had been ineffectual to conceal from her aunt and father. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. .
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