She was aware of it
now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in
a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room
and pretend not to hear. "What a wonderful colour!" she exclaimed. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. Ann Veronica listened thoughtfully,
with her eyes on the turf, and now and then she asked a question or looked up to
discuss a point. He had nothing more to say either to her
or to Spurlock. She could neither
speak nor move nor cry out. Was
there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully
furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were
they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a
rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going
astray. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring;
she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of
an eye, an utter stranger. She had lost her nerve, and
there was no more freedom in London for her that night.
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This video was uploaded to decorazione.club on 18-07-2024 19:51:59