You came to me, you wished me to speak to Anna. ‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet.
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