Her dainty shoes were soiled with dust and there was a great tear in her skirt. She had found the mausoleum underneath a broken monument. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. ‘The cat’s foot, Hilary. She HAD cried, Ann Veronica knew. I want to be a person by myself, and to pull my own strings. My nerves were in rags.
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