The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. He was astonished. “He couldn’t look me in the face and say it,” said Ann Veronica. Some part of the stiff vigour of the man seemed to have subsided. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. “No,” she said at last; “I’m a human being—not a timid female. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks.
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