Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. She had noticed a twenty year pattern emerging, and funny how opportunity seemed to strike just when she was getting truly anxious.
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