It’s an emerald. “I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. Barring that the Valade fellow had sneaked back. ” She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods.
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