Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. To surrender himself to the law, to face trial and imprisonment, was out of the question.
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