White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. “If it’s about that dance project,” he said, “it’s no good, Veronica. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding.
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