“We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. ” He said. “You shall go,” he declared. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way.
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