If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. Its architecture was richly ornamental, and resembled the style of a triumphal entrance to a capital, rather than a dungeon having battlements and hexagonal towers, and being adorned on the western side with a triple range of pilasters of the Tuscan order, amid the intercolumniations of which were niches embellished with statues. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal.
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