After quarter of an hour, she followed. Not a word had been exchanged between the two boys on the road. Abruptly he gripped her wrist. “That’s HIM,” said Ann Veronica, in sound, idiomatic English. “I’m being honest with you. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. Hugging him in the beautiful dress in front of the teenagers was strangely soothing to her. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. His eyes were set too close together. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being.
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