“That’s HIM,” said Ann Veronica, in sound, idiomatic English. ’ ‘Do you indeed?’ rejoined the old lady, twinkling at him, and urging him towards the door. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. Rummage, my boy, do.
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