But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity. “I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping. There had been disappointments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits. ‘Ah, non,’ exclaimed the husband. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess.
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