There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. I have never wept since that day. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love.
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