From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. “Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, and stared over her shoulder out of the window.
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