’ She turned, her eyes narrowed. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. He seated himself before it. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. . The queer phase of the dream was this, she was at no time a woman; she was symbolical of something, and he followed to learn what this something was. .
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