” “All we shall get,” said Ann Veronica. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary. I'm a stickler about clothes and clean chins.
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