He's now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland Trenchard. “Heavens!” exclaimed Ann Veronica, with extraordinary passion. She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Your life is like a funeral March. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture.
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