Before she put on her sun-helmet, she paused before the mirror. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. 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. She would just walk out of the house and go. “Let’s go in here. ‘Here you, Pottiswick.
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