“You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand. ” “There’s art,” said Ann Veronica, “and writing. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. He must be gone to dispose of the body. “If it is a choice between the two,” she answered, “I must be Annabel Pellissier.
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