She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Everything was blurred. Monsieur Charvill, he has not the means to choose different. You were afraid of me, afraid that I should have been shocked, afraid of the scandal. She distinctly shivered as he forced her to look at him. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. But she was staring seaward and did not notice the offering. ” She pointed to the envelope still resting upon the mantelpiece.
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