Her confession was still unmade. She flung aside every plan she had in life, every discretion. But, uttering a loud cry, he was swept away by the headlong torrent. No doubt they've all been rejected; but he couldn't throw them overboard. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. ‘It is in truth you?’ ‘Of course it is I. She wanted him so badly it hurt. They are used to me, they only cry because they have become so used to being here. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. She was instinctively aware of him as she had been of Julian.
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