“Do you want some of mine?” “Yes. “What can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. “No, I am alone,” she answered. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. I’m anxious, joyfully anxious, like a man when he has found a treasure. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat.
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