“Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. “Okay. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it.
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