Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. I don’t see what you can have to say. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. I’d only get a pack of lies in reply. ‘And if it was not for that imbecile of a Gérard, who has put his soldiers to watch for me, it would not need that I make it. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. Every one turned to her in astonishment. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand.
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