“And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. Sniveling brats, little fatherless bastards, you should breathe a sigh of relief. John sat with his parents who arrived bubbling with excitement, bragging to everyone about Lucy’s first performance for them exclusively. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive.
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