She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. “I don’t suppose you’ll be able to do it much,” said Ann Veronica. Only au revoir. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. He paused at the bamboo curtain of her room, which was in semi-darkness.
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