"I've waited supper, you perceive. "Stop a minute, my dear," cried Austin. He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. If Ann Veronica could have put words to that song they would have been, “Hot-blooded marriage or none!” but she was far too indistinct in this matter to frame any words at all.
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