"Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. I didn’t ought to have sent for him. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips.
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