” He pushed her a dozen yards along the greasy pavement with flat, well-trained hands that there seemed to be no opposing. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. She assumed with a kind of mesmeric force all the propositions that Ann Veronica wanted her to define. “Look here,” he cried out of a silence, with a sudden flash of understanding, “did you mean to throw me over when you came out with me this afternoon?” Ann Veronica hesitated, and with a startled mind realized the truth. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson.
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