” “Why not?” She turned on him. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known. He listened. And I'll answer for it, she'll never say a syllable to annoy you again. He had a wild impulse to shout. Come and have lunch with me. He kissed her at the door. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. He was unusually absurd and ready, and all the time it seemed to Ann Veronica as a delightful possibility, as a thing not indeed to be entertained seriously, but to be half furtively felt, that he was being so agreeable because she had come back again. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst.
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