This hand consigned him to destruction, but another was stretched forth to save him. Once a week, every Saturday, they had a little gathering from nine till the small hours, just talk and perhaps reading aloud and fruitarian refreshments—chestnut sandwiches buttered with nut tose, and so forth—and lemonade and unfermented wine; and to one of these symposia Miss Miniver after a good deal of preliminary solicitude, conducted Ann Veronica. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. The old aspect of the place was gone. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. “You are magnificent,” she said, “but the steel of your truth is a little oversharpened. Will you please—Not now, or I must go. She wanted him so badly it hurt. I don’t know what has come over me. He was struck disagreeably by Ramage’s air of gallant consideration and Ann Veronica’s self-possessed answers.
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