For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. White, who had risen to greet her, proceeded with a formal, and from Anna’s point of view, a wholly unnecessary round of introductions. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. He gave her silence in return. All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her.
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