They talked of a new substitute for dripping in vegetarian cookery that Mrs. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. She took up a book and threw it down again. Each became frightfully aware of the other as a plastic energetic body, of the strong muscles of neck against cheek, of hands gripping shoulder-blade and waist. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. To my loving husband Rodney, who is truly a dream come true.
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