She had changed into dungarees herself and kept her hair as it was. He could not permit her to remain in that position. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. It reached her only slowly that Ann Veronica was standing to her resolution. This obstacle, which appeared to preclude the possibility of egress in that quarter, was speedily got rid of. She saw Lucy darkening her doorstep and stood from the recliner. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. “Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing.
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