But we get over it. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. She held up the lamp. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection.
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