As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. ‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity.
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