I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. And if she was ever found living in the area like that, homeless, John could somehow find out. “I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam.
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