Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright. “You said you were in love with me,” said Ann Veronica; “I wanted to explain —” “I said I loved and wanted you. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. You have neither reason nor logic. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. ‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. He had dungarees on and a blue work shirt. "Suppose he does. Hugging him in the beautiful dress in front of the teenagers was strangely soothing to her.
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