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. Her skin prickled. Every word you utter puzzles me. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. In this room was my ruin begun: in this room it should be ended. This year—I’ve got it badly.
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