She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. And you’re as clean as fire. “But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question.
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