He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. 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. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. I felt—I felt living in a masked world. He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. How's that strike you?" "Very well, sir. So he made his dispositions and went off on some other fool’s errand. Now she was to be married to him and it horrified her. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. I had no idea you were not the happiest girl.
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