I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. She moaned as his hands explored her body, fingers crushing against her panties under her skirt. Then Ann Veronica passed on toward the tea in the garden, which was dotted with the elite of Morningside Park society, and there she was pounced upon by Lady Palsworthy and given tea and led about.
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