She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. But Ann Veronica had still to get to her chief topic. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. I couldn’t help the thought. Your adoptive father understands mankind better. “For your own sake, let me beg of you not to stay for a moment. Never since I was a girl have I seen your father so moved. ” 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.
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