Though Gerald must suppose it was inevitable she should eventually come here. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. Heard voices. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel.
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