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Ann Veronica realized that she was alone with the world. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. She veiled her emotion by taking off his overcoat. I'm trying to make you see the worldly point of view, which always inclines toward the evil side of things. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. But one day he came to me. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. ’ ‘Gérard,’ she said, giving the French version with a soft “g” and not quite managing the “l”.
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