“Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. Jack was so harrassed that he felt half inclined to stand at bay. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Nothing else weighs against it.
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