Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. “I think we are growing sensible,” he said. Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. He now tells her that she is free, no longer a slave. But not today. He insisted on buying this girl for two hundred mex. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures.
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