" "Not I," replied Jack; "I'm too comfortable where I am. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. She began to miss him when he was gone during the day and cherish the quiet times he spent only with her. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. But the restraint exercised by her instinctive delicacy was very great; over and above coarse or sexual matters it covered religion and politics and any mention of money matters or crime, and Ann Veronica found herself wondering whether these exclusions represented, after all, anything more than suppressions. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers.
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