. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. “I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. "You mean you were just sorry for him?" "As I would be for any human being in pain. “And where are YOU going?” he said. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury.
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