She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. That would not help her. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. She treaded down the hall swiftly but stopped abruptly when she heard a voice in back of her. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. . Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. Once inside, he looked around, worried that his parents would suddenly cancel their trip and return home. I must have this beast brought to London with me, that is seen. ‘Lucky I have you to keep me from Bedlam, then.
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