The sun never shone upon a lovelier couple than now approached the altar. And now Ann Veronica’s evenings were also becoming very busy. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. Without her, it was lonely. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. She could not risk going in the door, lest she run into Larry or Cathy drinking a nocturnal glass of milk or Mike raiding the refrigerator for snacks. My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived.
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