“It’s very good,” she said. “I believe it is. I wonder. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion.
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