What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor. “There are policemen—and buses. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it.
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