You hear what I say, Quilt?" he added, looking at Jack. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. Death belongs to God, young man. Gives you a right to hang on to the old man until he busts—practically. I can’t love you.
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