“Ann Veronica is looking very well, don’t you think?” he said, a little awkwardly. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. ‘I do not see at all. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. He found himself growing hoarse yelling over the music, but it also situated him to lean towards her to put his hand on her ear to aid her hearing.
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