‘I will not, if you will assure me that an imbecile is a better marriage prospect than a starving pig. ‘Jacques?’ she called. “What can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. “The first person you love, Ann Veronica, is yourself—get hold of that! The soul you have to save is Ann Veronica’s soul. I have only one question to ask you. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Plote was sleeping or deaf. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together.
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