We dine at seven-thirty. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose.
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