” “Alcide’s songs are not atrocious,” Ennison remarked. His expression became pained. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. Carefully abstaining from thrusting against each other, Ann Veronica and her father began an absurdly desperate struggle, the one to open the door, the other to keep it fastened. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out.
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