John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. ” Sir John looked at her sideways. "Well?" he whispered. “It was the night you left Paris. Occasionally she would be missing a sock or a bra, so she took to storing those things in her gym locker. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. Of the vast mass of these impressions Ann Veronica could make nothing at the time; there they were—Fact! She stored them away in a mind naturally retentive, as a squirrel stores away nuts, for further digestion. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. "I've known him all my life," replied the other. ‘I disgust you, eh? Very well, then.
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