" Sheppard's name operated like magic on the crowd. It reached her only slowly that Ann Veronica was standing to her resolution. Sheppard, I'm sure, will say as much for you. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. Sheppard. Ann Veronica intervened a little in the novelist discussion with a defence of Esmond and a denial that the Egoist was obscure, and when she spoke every one else stopped talking and listened. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. ‘I trust you were not altogether disgusted when I kissed you. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. Wood trembled.
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