She watched the captain tuck the pistol back in his pocket, and perch on the edge of the big desk. Like appendicitis. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here. There was nothing in the pockets of the coat. ” For some creditable moments in her life Ann Veronica was utterly disgusted with herself; she was wrung with a passionate and belated desire to move gently, to speak softly and ambiguously—to be, in effect, prim. “Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. In an instant, she turned on him. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley.
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