If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. Do you think she does?” Ann Veronica picked among her salad with a judicial expression of face. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear.
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