It needs cultivating, I think. It had ceased to beat. Ann Veronica had come down thinking of nothing in the world but her inflexible resolution to go to the dance in the teeth of all opposition. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. She was like an angel with one wing. “I wonder,” she said, “how much you care. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald.
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