She gloried in it: he needed her. Ann Veronica had one of her flashes of insight. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. Very intelligent, by the looks of the books she was carrying. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. He waved a cordial goodbye. It was the gallows. “Get me some brandy and my bag. She put her head out of the window. She had mentioned the address where she and her sister had lived. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him.
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