“Isn’t the question more complicated than that?” said Ann Veronica. He glanced at the ruins of his High Priestess. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion.
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