The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Ann Veronica was apologetic to the bottom of her soul. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. That person advanced towards him.
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