Miss Stanley walked round the garden thinking, and presently house and garden reverberated to Ann Veronica’s slamming of the front door. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. “This isn’t furtive,” said Ann Veronica.
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