“It is part of the irony of life,” he said. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. 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. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately.
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