“This is MY thing,” said Ann Veronica, softly, with thoughtful eyes upon him. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. She was a little paler than when she had come to London, a little paler and a little thinner. Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. “John, don’t!” she cried. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race.
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