She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before. “But, my dear!” said Ann Veronica’s aunt. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. She forced herself not to think of John.
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