” Anna’s demeanour was still imperturbable, her marble pallor untinged by the slightest flush of colour. The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. Never sent for the shirt. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. They're on the forward lounge in the saloon. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. ‘Monstrously unfair of you, Hilary.
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