“Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. A good deal of the food will be in tins. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. “I will go,” he said. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps.
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