I can’t rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. He looked at his friend. “Have you not heard?” she said. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. The weed was all right. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding.
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