The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. “And yet I wonder whether the world ever held such another enigma in her sex. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. ” Ann Veronica sat at the foot of the sufferer’s bed, while Teddy Widgett, being something of an athlete, occupied the only bed-room chair—a decadent piece, essentially a tripod and largely a formality—and smoked cigarettes, and tried to conceal the fact that he was looking all the time at Ann Veronica’s eyebrows. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly.
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