Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. Not a word passed between them. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. Not these twenty year.
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