She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. Why? Because he knew that when these two young people left, the island would become intolerable. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. “By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply.
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