What do you think people will make of that? What will this lover of yours make of that?” At intervals Ann Veronica demanded to go, declaring her undying resolve to repay him at any cost, and made short movements doorward. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. “Odd!” she said. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet.
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