” Lucy yanked him into the hidden door to Room 109, a door to the backstage that looked like the entrance to a broom closet. After all, life had still its pulsations. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. Mr. Diane Vorsack clicked her tongue in a “tsk”. “Heavens!” exclaimed Ann Veronica, with extraordinary passion.
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