She stepped into his arms. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. That's the way she strikes me. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. I saw him ride away with that other fellow.
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