It comes over the mountains, Anna, pink darkening into orange red, everywhere a wonderful cloud sea, scintillating with colour. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. Laughed at me, then. Still silence everywhere. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean.
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