The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. That's the only fault I know of. He boasted of her ability to learn to men who were a stone’s throw from having the power of the pope himself.
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