“Frightful lot of things aren’t settled,” said Ann Veronica. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. I picked up her handkerchief on the floor. A long and secret conference then took place between the thief-taker and his myrmidons, after which they were severally dismissed.
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