He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. ‘Left to yourself, my girl, you may not have any affairs. . And then—this sudden thrust. He knew she was out there, he could feel it.
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