“It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game. The performance over, he relaxed and closed his eyes. But he can't have his eyes always about him, or he'd have been with us this morning at the Mint, eh, Mr. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. The intoxicating sense of novelty had given place to a more business-like mood. You know you do, Annabel.
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