It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. He recognised Anna, and at once addressed her. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. " And, as he spoke, he took up a sheet of paper, and hastily traced a few lines upon it.
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