’ ‘Well, don’t blame me if you get your head blown off. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. She was supposed to be lifeless; but she survived the accident, though she never regained her strength. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again. I hate what I am. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. Hitherto, no visiters had been permitted to see him.
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