This started a thought moving. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. I don’t care what else there is in the world. Half a minute, Vee. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. It had not tasted good since 1350. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be.
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