Part 4 At eight that evening Miss Stanley tapped at Ann Veronica’s bedroom door. She knew now the supreme human energy which sent men to hell or carried them to their earthly heights. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. It would be too mortifying. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. Such a time that it takes for them to go.
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