Even Ah Cum had resumed his Oriental shell of reserve. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. It slipped out—as did that “she”.
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