The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity. “I suppose my levity is incorrigible. It’s a lake among precipices, and there is a little inn where we can stay, and sit and eat our dinner at a pleasant table that looks upon the lake. It was enough. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. The theme was a masquerade.
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