" "Oh, that!" she said, with a deprecating gesture. Ann Veronica forgot him as soon as she was through the gate, and her face resumed its expression of stern preoccupation. "I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. Horrible details recurred to her.
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