Husband of mine, I think we have rather overrated the emotional capacity of those—those dears. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. She might even forgive him. There were perches inside where she could crouch and labyrinths underneath where she could hide. He had been back for two weeks during some pleasant weather in July. He might go on as the devoted lover until he tired. Then it dawned. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. “Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. And what a noise they made! This is how I used to call them. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently.
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