Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. With a strong tendency to satire, but without a particle of malice or ill-nature in its display. But don’t think your heroic milice will save you.
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