” “There’s art,” said Ann Veronica, “and writing. ’ ‘Don’t be stuffy, Hilary,’ admonished his betrothed. They are for serving me. ” Her elation teetered in mid-air for a second, then began to flutter down around her like a badly-built house of cards. “I tell my Mom everything. ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings.
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