They had asked her to come to the first of the two great annual Fadden Dances, the October one, and Ann Veronica had accepted with enthusiasm. The light of memory flashed in the man’s face. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. It is not the woman who speaks there. The few pence left in her purse would only provide a very scanty lunch. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. Here would be a woman perfectly unrecognizable, strong, ruthless but just.
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