She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. “For seven years,” said Ann Veronica, “I have been trying to keep myself from thinking about love. Wood's," was the reply. She watched for five minutes until he completely disappeared over Pine Crest, past the yellow fire hydrant and the dented stop sign. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. ‘Hilary is a darling. “I suppose you know I like you tremendously?” he pursued.
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