The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. Assessing him as harmless, she had remained friendly, albeit aloof. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. “I had a visit from Sir John in my rooms,” she said. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. “I am very much obliged for the tea,” she said. But she did not believe he would do that. They sold him the whisky. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told.
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