She bolted upright as she heard footsteps rumble towards the door, cursing UPS for being so damn persistent in such foul weather. A door slammed. I didn’t understand. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. Take me with you. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. She had looked forward to an explanation. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. *** Madame la Comtesse de St Erme regarded the English major with a lacklustre eye, Gerald thought. 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.
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