It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. To be exact, it was just sixteen hours and twenty minutes. ’ The lady stamped her foot. It was one of the most educational disillusionments in Ann Veronica’s career. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. Then he sensed the trap. There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. The girl’s gaze met his in interested inquiry. Immediately behind this individual, came a pale, poverty-stricken woman, whose forlorn aspect contrasted strongly with his plump and comfortable physiognomy.
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