Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. But the current rumblings of internal discontent across the Channel were productive of unease in certain quarters. Surely she could ignore him. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions.
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