” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. ‘Imbecile. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. Men were going hither and thither with barrows, and ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish, and trying to support the tottering habitations. She could not help but admit that she liked being smiled at and addressed in the hallways by hordes of friendly faces.
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