B. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. About two weeks ago. The place pulsed with music too loud to converse above. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard.
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