‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. Impressed with this idea, he paused for a moment to listen. He had “put his foot down,” and said she must not go. He opened the drawer of the writing table. The girl wished that she had come afoot, despite the knowledge that she would have suffered many inconveniences, accidental and intentional jostling, insolence and ribald jest. And also she didn’t like them. “Gods!” cried Ann Veronica, and kept him standing.
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