“If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. It was long and narrow, with a ceiling supported by huge uncovered rafters, and so low as scarcely to allow a tall man like himself to stand erect beneath it. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. The theme was a masquerade.
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