" "How so?" inquired Winifred. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica’s affairs. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. Then he paused. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. " Pain was stabbing him, now here, now there; pain was real enough; but he could not establish as a fact in his throbbing brain the presence of his aunt in the doorway. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing.
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