‘Monsieur Charvill thought perhaps that his daughter would find not a welcome. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. Ann Veronica loved beautiful things, and the beauty of undraped loveliness not least among them; but these were pictures that did but insist coarsely upon the roundness of women’s bodies. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. She HAD cried, Ann Veronica knew. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain. A strong coarse man, and there were things in his eyes which made my blood run cold with terror.
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