“He couldn’t look me in the face and say it,” said Ann Veronica. A rock gave way to deep water. He could not quite make her out; a new type. He got off at Canal, and she exited behind the crowd. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart.
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