And the less “anything” happened the better. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. Ann Veronica tried to keep hold of a complicated situation and not lose her head. He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. She passed inside and upstairs without a word. It was easy to imagine great power in such a man.
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