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“It seems to me it comes to earning one’s living in the long run,” said Ann Veronica, coloring faintly. Traversing Angel Court, and Green Arbour Court,—celebrated as one of Goldsmith's retreats,—he speedily reached Seacoal Lane, and pursuing the same course, which he and Thames had formerly taken, arrived at the yard at the back of Jonathan's habitation. A dozen shynesses and intellectual barriers were being outflanked or broken down in her mind. The very old lady in the antimacassar touched Ann Veronica’s arm suddenly, and said, in a deep, arch voice: “Talking of love again; spring again, love again. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in.
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