Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. ‘I can see why you lost your place, young Kimble. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. ” Annabel pulled down her veil to hide the tears. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. She was introduced, perhaps a little too obviously for her taste, as a girl who was standing out against her people, to a gathering that consisted of a very old lady with an extremely wrinkled skin and a deep voice who was wearing what appeared to Ann Veronica’s inexperienced eye to be an antimacassar upon her head, a shy, blond young man with a narrow forehead and glasses, two undistinguished women in plain skirts and blouses, and a middle-aged couple, very fat and alike in black, Mr. She struggled not to be afraid.
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