I picked up her handkerchief on the floor. It is useless to talk. “Have some more port wine, sir?” “It’s a very sound wine,” said Mr. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. Ann Veronica blushed. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. That blow made me a thief. A woman indeed this to love and be loved, beautiful, graceful, gay.
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