Montressor’s guests were. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. I met her when we were both very young, as young as you are. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that.
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