“I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. "The intelligence seems new to you. It was impulsive and natural. “Just the box only. I secured the dog after he had wounded me. And now, come and sit by me, my dear, and let's have a little quiet chat together. Wood turned to look at him. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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