He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting.
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