All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. Then she went back and mixed up the sheets in a search for particular passages. ’ ‘Who were they?’ she asked abruptly. "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked.
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