She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. “You have the temperament,” he said. She leaned a little towards him. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. ‘Eh bien?’ She thrust again, from the same place. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. Anna was afterwards astonished at her own selfpossession. “My God!” he said again. "Love me, love my dog! Because I've scolded him and told him a few truths, you are ice to me. E. You, for instance, you live, you are not afraid to live.
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