” Nigel Ennison looked up with a little start. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. The spikes almost touched the upper part of the hatch: scarcely space enough for the passage of a hand being left between their points and the beam. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping.
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