” “Poor old ring!” said Ann Veronica. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. It was 1582. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. It is dull—deadly dull. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one.
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