“He naturally does not wish for connexions which are—I do not wish to hurt you feelings, Anna, but I must say it—not altogether desirable. “My God!” he said at last, with tremendous feeling, and then again, “My God!” Now that this thing was said her mind was clear and calm. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Ann Veronica found herself in the presence of the most disconcerting fact in human experience, the kindliness of people you believe to be thoroughly wrong. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. .
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