She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. She felt smaller and more adventurous even than she had expected to feel. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Ann Veronica watched her face, vaguely sympathizing with her, vaguely disliking her physical insufficiency and her convulsive movements, and the fine eyebrows were knit with a faint perplexity.
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