He had done his best, pitching with determined fury that resulted in two outs. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. He came in apologetically; all the old “Well, and how ARE we?” note gone; and once he asked Ann Veronica, almost furtively, “How’s Alice getting on, Vee?” Finally, on the Day, he appeared like his old professional self transfigured, in the most beautiful light gray trousers Ann Veronica had ever seen and a new shiny silk hat with a most becoming roll. The buboes broke and God took Lucia's mother. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.
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