Miss Stanley walked round the garden thinking, and presently house and garden reverberated to Ann Veronica’s slamming of the front door. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. “I loathe afternoon concerts, and——” She was really like her sister he thought, impressed for a moment by the soft brilliancy of her smile. " "By the way, did you read those stories?" "Yes. And I have wanted to so very much. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. She held out the foil. Blueskin answered by dashing his head violently against the flagged floor. And the age gets higher.
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