He unlocked himself from her embrace. Heard voices. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. Capes sat down in the armchair beside 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.
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