Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. “I am just back from Paris. ” She shook her fist ceilingward. You come to England, and hide in a secret convent in London. They are their mother’s sons. Why doesn’t she marry? Plenty of money under her father’s will.
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