“I will do whatever you want,” said Ann Veronica. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. He was in a position to help her. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Sheppard, which she gratefully declined. "If you two loved each other," went on the doctor, "there would be something to stand on—a reason why for this madness. I want to tell every one.
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