It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. He was unusually absurd and ready, and all the time it seemed to Ann Veronica as a delightful possibility, as a thing not indeed to be entertained seriously, but to be half furtively felt, that he was being so agreeable because she had come back again. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. Then he had gone away. It was a second reminder that against her claim to go free and untrammelled there was a case to be made, that after all it was true that a girl does not go alone in the world unchallenged, nor ever has gone freely alone in the world, that evil walks abroad and dangers, and petty insults more irritating than dangers, lurk. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly. The doctor said you wrote. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken cheeks.
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