“Take my advice,” he said hoarsely. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. It rained heavily all day, so he did not stir forth. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader.
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