“Don’t!” cried Ann Veronica, struggling faintly, and he released her. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. The policy of this step was immediately apparent. “I wonder,” she said, “how much you care. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally.
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