“I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. Wood. Then, when the tension was getting unendurable, and she was on the verge of speaking to some casual passer-by and demanding help, her follower vanished. He had hurt her. Something about the girl had suggested an idea. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry.
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