As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. He removed his cigarette from his lips and waved it gently in the air. I do not care in the least. I meant mischief. It was the grand nursery of vice. His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. " So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk.
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