Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income.
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