Treat me as an elder brother, if you like. She observed the tides, amazed by how high the water could rise, almost touching the tops of the cliffs. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps. Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility. And I am grateful to you. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. “What can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. It’s not a bit of good pretending there’s any Higher Truth or wonderful principle in this business.
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