He dressed mechanically; so many moves this way, so many moves that. “Let me see,” he said. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. And at last Ann Veronica and Miss Miniver came down the dark staircase and out into the foggy spaces of the London squares, and crossed Russell Square, Woburn Square, Gordon Square, making an oblique route to Ann Veronica’s lodging. It’s—it’s a social difference.
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