These two elderly ladies would call her stark mad. The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. ‘You are outrageous. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. ‘I’m only surprised you have not released yourself. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it.
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