It came to her like a dear thing rediscovered, that she loved Capes. “Come in. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. At this moment, his quick ears detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. Every gibbet at Tyburn and Hounslow appeared to have been plundered of its charnel spoil to enrich the adjoining cabinet, so well was it stored with skulls and bones, all purporting to be the relics of highwaymen famous in their day. Wasting no time, he crossed straight to the shutters and opened them. So that it seemed to her the whole world had changed —the very light of it had changed. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica.
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