As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. It was her job to keep the house as neat as a pin, up to the high standard that Sheila expected, being a nurse. “But your sister?” he asked. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings.
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