She made up her mind in the train home that it should be a decisive crisis. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. His blood would be sweet with it. Then he turned on his heel and walked off. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. ‘Well, if that’s what the good Lord wants, then you’ll just have to accept it. She was given a glimpse of his soul.
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