He recognised Anna, and at once addressed her. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. He buys his own clothes, chooses his own company, makes his own way of living. ‘Yes, miss. But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame.
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