You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. ” “I like the mystical way better,” said Ann Veronica, and thought. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye.
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