" There had never been, from that fatal hour eight months gone down to this, the inclination to confess. She crooked her finger. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. Gerald looked at it, then at her face. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious.
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