“What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. But it annoyed Ann Veronica. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. She ignored it until it repeated itself. “I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light.
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