As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. It was time to leave America. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. And then you go—and half throttle me. "Strange!" he continued, as if talking to himself.
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