He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. “Let’s go. Meysey Hill—never your wife. If you like books and music, we'll get along. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary.
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