” But Ann Veronica was by no means sure of that until she went over to Wamblesmith and saw her sister, very remote and domestic and authoritative, in a becoming tea-gown, in command of Doctor Ralph’s home. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. You are one of the Immortals. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London. It wasn’t pretty. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. Without hindrance—present occupation. She wanted to know. She felt it would save explanations if she did not state she had left her home and was looking for employment. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast.
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