Ann Veronica stared for a moment in amazement at this dark-green object that clashed as it was put down. The ball passed over his head, and lodged in the ceiling. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. Do not disquiet yourself. YOU did. “I will not rob you of your coffee, most dutiful of sisters!” she exclaimed. Anna felt that her words had become charged with a fuller and more subtle meaning than any which she had intended to impart. She flushed with desire and happiness, her husband had returned to her and all would be aright. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Your father….
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