He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Wood uttered something like an imprecation. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. “There is some one else whom I care for!” He laughed hardly. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. When she released him he ran down the beach for a stick which he fetched and laid at her feet.
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