He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. He comforted himself, however, with the certainty which he felt of capturing his prey on the Sunday. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. Wood. “You are developing far too retentive a memory for praises,” said Ann Veronica. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. She is the image of what I was like, and she has a better voice.
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