It was then, I am sure, empty. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. I make no apology for not being with you now. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. Ann Veronica’s universe, which had never been altogether so respectful to her as she could have wished, gave a shout and whirled head over heels. Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue.
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