He propped himself up on one arm, kissing her passionately. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. “I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being. People of your sort—I don’t want the instincts to—to rush our situation. But look at these glorious daisies!” “But don’t you think political questions ARE important?” “I don’t think they are this afternoon, and I don’t think they are to you. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. Mere formality.
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