She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. The very old lady in the antimacassar touched Ann Veronica’s arm suddenly, and said, in a deep, arch voice: “Talking of love again; spring again, love again. " Sheppard started to his feet. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t.
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