She heard him come in; the light burned on. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. And empty. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. By this time, he had apparently accomplished all he desired; for moving the bottle out of Jack's reach, he appropriated it entirely to his own use, leaving the devoted lad to the care of the females. She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity.
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