If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. “Ah, Vee,” he said, “that’s better! and kissed her back rather clumsily. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Behind Mrs.
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