Part 2 Ann Veronica Stanley was twenty-one and a half years old. He carried a small bag. Suppose he stopped all her allowance, made it imperative that she should either stay ineffectually resentful at home or earn a living for herself at once. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. That was odd: when young people were joyous, they had to express it physically. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes.
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