It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Ann Veronica, with a sigh at the cost of hospitality, made a hasty negotiation for an extra tea and for a fire in the groundfloor apartment, and preened herself carefully for the interview. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. "It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. Then the foremost bowed and passed on.
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