All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone.
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