” She smiled grimly at the recollection of that lunch—tea and roll at a cheap café. He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. Anna was singing as she used to sing. Martha was quite right. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life.
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