” “What’s our lot?” asked her sister. ” “Where?” Courtlaw asked quickly. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her.
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