We’re regarded as inflammable litter that mustn’t be left about. And my wife won’t live with me for reasons that I think most women would consider sound. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. Is there?” “Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, with a radiant face.
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