I should only disappoint you terribly some day. Do you mean to tell me you didn’t understand why I wanted you to come here?” “Not a bit of it,” said Ann Veronica stoutly. The boy she had loved was gone. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. “Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. Ann Veronica watched him from the dining-room window, and after some moments of maidenly hesitation rambled out into the garden in a reverse direction to Mr. ” John’s father, Thomas, strode into the front hall at that moment in his golf clothes.
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