Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. From the first I could see that neither believed my story. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. She backed away from him. “He’s quite the inventor. “It would have been rash and unwise,” she said at the end of a meditation. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips.
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