He drew her to him and tipped her chin towards him. “You are developing far too retentive a memory for praises,” said Ann Veronica. The primitive superstition of his Puritan forbears was his; and before this the buckler of his education disintegrated. Her voice was weak and flat. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. He glanced at the ruins of his High Priestess. Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. Niente. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. ‘No doubt accompanied by the latest crim con tales.
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