” When the next holidays came Ann Veronica’s mother was ill, and Gwen was in the sick-room when Ann Veronica returned home. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Move. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. You are utterly baffling. As the secret door opened, the sounds within the house came at once to her ears: the tramping of feet above, and the hoarse voices echoing through the mansion. Really they are the most beautiful things in the world. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. They began to wrestle fiercely. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. I see.
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