She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. “All right, Dunster,” he said. She missed them already. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. He was snoring stupidly. They began the evening like usual, driving down highways and byways. “But if you knew anything of that—” “I did. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. Petrified and speechless, he turned an imploring look at Wild, who was himself filled with astonishment at the pile of rubbish lying before him. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. “What have I been all this time?” she asked herself, and answered, “Just stark egotism, crude assertion of Ann Veronica, without a modest rag of religion or discipline or respect for authority to cover me!” It seemed to her as though she had at last found the touchstone of conduct.
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