He was apt to play so many games, she was afraid she might have misunderstood. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. “My God!” he said again.
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