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“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. She had very few clear memories before a particular day in the library, when they had finished one of her first reading lessons. "It was silly. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. "Oh God! she is dying," exclaimed Jack in a voice suffocated by emotion. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. 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.
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