“You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. ” To remain, she felt, was to concede everything. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. He still watched her and questioned her. No window. “This is MY thing,” said Ann Veronica, softly, with thoughtful eyes upon him. Thames, you needn't tidy yourself, as you've hurt your arm. “Home, of course,” she answered. Surely he was imagining this picture. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays.
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