Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. She was quite oblivious to the sensation she had created. "He is," returned Quilt, significantly. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. Bitte!. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. That turned her mind to the more generalized aspects of her perplexities again. “You’re just a boy! You grow moody and spellbound, John, and the next moment you are ecstatic. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. Earles thinks I am a little mad, and between ourselves I am not sure about it myself. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged.
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