"Once there," proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, "he's as good as in his grave. This helped to restore Ann Veronica’s self-command. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle.
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