Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. He made it brief. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. She could feel her face turning beet red.
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