On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. She felt very awkward as she stared at 103 the top of his ashen hair. “I didn’t understand, Vee.
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