“Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds. “It is not, of course, a pleasant subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture to suggest to you that your sister’s—er—indiscretions—have reached a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. She had imagined she had drowned them altogether.
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