“I’ve been looking out for you,” he said. ” She paused. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. “You must arrest me!” she gasped, breathlessly, insisting insanely on a point already carried; “you shall!” The police-station at the end seemed to Ann Veronica like a refuge from unnamable disgraces. He's rewriting Poe and De Maupassant; and that stuff was good only when Poe and De Maupassant wrote it. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in. No one will ever love you as I love you now. He hesitated. I don’t care.
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