He yelled to her, asking her if she wished to have a drink with him, which she refused. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. He fixed it. “We sent for you several hours ago,” he remarked.
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