The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. "Quick. ” “Nor I,” said Ann Veronica. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. Ran in the family.
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