Even the light was different in Athens, soft and golden, sweet as the morning dew blessed by Athena herself. It would have been a crisis anyhow, but it was complicated in Ann Veronica’s mind by the fact that a letter lay on the breakfast-table from Mr. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. I was just like a sort of dummy that does things as it is told—that is to say, as the strings are pulled.
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