They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas. . People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. Journeying blindly half way across the world, this man had found his quarry. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. “Nigel is like all men,” Lady Lescelles continued. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. He gurgled as if trying to communicate.
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