She despises me, I suppose. He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “Yes,” she answered, looking away. “Let us put the lamp out,” she said; “the flames are ever so much better for talking,” and Ann Veronica agreed.
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