“Oh, Ann Veronica!” he cried, “I cannot let you go like this! You don’t understand. But, since I've seen the friend and companion of my childhood, Thames Darrell, I've no heart for it. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. The quiet encounter and home-coming Ann Veronica and she had contemplated was entirely disorganized by this misadventure; there were no adequate explanations, and after they had settled things at Ann Veronica’s lodgings, they reached home in the early afternoon estranged and depressed, with headaches and the trumpet voice of the indomitable Kitty Brett still ringing in their ears. . . If you attempt to play the traitor, you will do so at the hazard of your life. She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. ” She looked at him with curious eyes. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. Manning.
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