There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. Then she saw him. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. ” Ann Veronica meditated over that phrase. I have always had a secret crush on him, to be honest with you. I am five-and-thirty, and I have knocked about in the world and tasted the quality of life.
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