When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. Do you think I would marry you? Rather would I marry the pig in the convent. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. All alone; and nobody cared whether he lived or died. The doctor would never betray him. I was certain of it. Ann Veronica loved beautiful things, and the beauty of undraped loveliness not least among them; but these were pictures that did but insist coarsely upon the roundness of women’s bodies. Businesswomen in pointy-toed shoes swooned coyly in his direction, tipping their noses over their glossy magazines to admire 273 him.
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