‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. But I never found any truth in the saying. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. That's the way it goes. To have sprung this upon them to-night would have been worth a thousand pounds. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. Very slowly emerging out of a phase of stupefaction, these personal affairs and her personal problem resumed possession of her mind. He began to think of speeches, very firm, explicit speeches, he would make.
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