"Why do you laugh?" he asked. A knot of three policemen in conflict with her staggered toward Ann Veronica’s attendants and distracted their attention. Manning loomed up ever and again into her world, full of a futile solicitude, and almost always declaring she was splendid, splendid, and wishing he could talk things out with her. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. It’s the sort of way a woman always does gloss over her ethical positions. There are a thousand questions I'd like to ask you, but I sha'n't ask them.
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