” “And if you are a millionaire like Drummond,” someone remarked, “you send round a note and ask her to come out to supper. One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. It was dry, as if she had powdered it. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard of swig, and a toast. “You should quit. You certainly have not shown much desire for my society, have you?” “You have been wrapped up in your politics,” she murmured.
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