ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. “I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. A row of magnificent, and even then venerable, elms threw their broad arms over this pleasant spot. Pretend to weep both of you as loudly as you can. Her confession was still unmade.
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