” “You remembered. ” Ann Veronica listened with her eyes on the fire. ” She gestured to an abandoned farmhouse down a long stretch of icy dirt road. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. Earles, but it is a good one. I had not seen the courtyard in many years and I was happy to dream of those times.
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