Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. I ought never to have thought of it. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. Manning’s feelings, and as Ann Veronica’s mind was still largely engaged with fundamentals and found no pleasure in metrical forms, she had not as yet cut its pages.
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