That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. Anna was having tea by herself when she entered. Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab. But after a time I learned the ways of the parrakeets, and they would come down to me like doves in the stories. “This is all madness,” she declared wearily. Ann Veronica intervened a little in the novelist discussion with a defence of Esmond and a denial that the Egoist was obscure, and when she spoke every one else stopped talking and listened. Eh? Banging against the old rollers—that'll put some life into us both. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful.
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