A. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. You’d make a good Devil. “I’m d——d if I understand this,” he said thoughtfully. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. Ann Veronica watched him from the dining-room window, and after some moments of maidenly hesitation rambled out into the garden in a reverse direction to Mr. Pews had been brought in and set in two rows before the huge table, covered in white cloth, that formed the altar at the far end. “You have even her name.
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