Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab. This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it. 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. ‘Where was I? Oh yes.
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