F. Pennsylvania Dutch. Besides, he was a Yale man. His car was there. “I don’t see, Mollie,” he remarked, taking a cigar from the box on the table as his sister and daughter rose, “why you and Vee shouldn’t discuss this little affair —whatever it is—without bothering me. ” Ann Veronica could have wept with vexation. She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down. But I don't understand her; she's over my head. Don't unman him.
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