Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. The whole was then fired, and in a few minutes the room was a blaze. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations. “You are a miracle! God spares few from the Pestilence. ” “He was probably right,” she declared. "Wretch!" she cried, "you shall not force me to your hateful purpose. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself.
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