Ann Veronica was excited and puzzled, with a sense of a strange and disconcerting new light breaking over her relations with Ramage. Go easy. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. She whispered, “Another car is coming,” as lights approached their car. Her spirit awoke in dismay to an affection in ruins, to the immense undignified disaster that had come to them. “Really,” she said. “Absolutely platonically,” she said. They were familiar but more massive. Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. ’ The sergeant’s air became positively avuncular. .
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