“I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all.
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