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Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. From the window he saw The Tigress faring toward Copeley's! Then somebody was coming? Some political high muckamuck, probably. At the expiration of an hour, by dint of unremitting exertion, he had made so large a breach in the chimney, that he could stand upright in it. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. “Earning a salary!” “You’re like a Princess in Exile!” he repeated, overruling her. You are afraid of the warmth in your blood. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance. He stole his chance and thrust his hand towards hers. You can’t do without an agent, and there’s no one can run you better than I can. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. .
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