The Well Hole. Then they dressed her in a dirty dress of coarse serge and a cap, and took away her own clothes. The crash was tremendous. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. Down under the incalculable selfishness of the penitent child there was the man's uneasy recollection of Judas.
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