Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents.
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