They struck her as cold and indifferent. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. “There’s the classes,” said Constance, the well-informed. "My father!" she whispered. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension.
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