Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. Your old rooms are there, if you choose. She had remained patently unavailable to him.
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