The imbecile. 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. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired.
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