Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. It’s Italian. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. Why, he can scarcely be twenty. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. Daughters were in the air that day. There was something indeed holding the whole species back from the imaginable largeness of life. It seems to me very silly. God, how old are they now? They must be teenagers. But they’ve just been to see General Charvill. But I should certainly want to be rid of Mr. We'll try whether he'll get loose again. I hope that she is okay.
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