He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. She could hear the raucous laughter and bad music below. "The poor young man!" she said. “Ann Veronica,” he said, “I tell you this is love. “Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. Winifred instantly picked it up.
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