Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. The low ceiling made him seem abnormally tall. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. Jolly hard life for a girl, getting a living. “What do you mean, Annabel? You only knew Mr.
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