It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Ann Veronica watched him from the dining-room window, and after some moments of maidenly hesitation rambled out into the garden in a reverse direction to Mr. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. Got the tickets? Yes, but then—you said you borrowed?” “I did, too,” said Ann Veronica. The Night-Cellar XVIII. She said as much to him. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. I think you will find that his story will be believed, whatever I say; and in any case, if he is going to stay on here, I shall have to go away. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily.
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