He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. ‘You cannot read my mind at all, monsieur. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek.
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