She paused. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. “I knew that you waited at the farmhouse. Happy Thanksgiving. Most people, every one I know else, seem to have mated with foreigners and to talk uneasily in unfamiliar tongues, to be afraid of the knowledge the other one has, of the other one’s perpetual misjudgment and misunderstandings. Then came the cable that you were in Canton, ill, but not dangerously so. John, I shall eat that whole tin of sardines. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort.
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