” “It’s a very good image,” said Ann Veronica. " "Write him," urged Spurlock, finding speech. It rained heavily all day, so he did not stir forth. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. . ” “Anything except that,” he murmured. He came in apologetically; all the old “Well, and how ARE we?” note gone; and once he asked Ann Veronica, almost furtively, “How’s Alice getting on, Vee?” Finally, on the Day, he appeared like his old professional self transfigured, in the most beautiful light gray trousers Ann Veronica had ever seen and a new shiny silk hat with a most becoming roll. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. I could not dream of loving you.
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