Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. And I'll answer for it, she'll never say a syllable to annoy you again. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Why should WE hoard? We aren’t going out presently, like Japanese lanterns in a gale. ” He was arrested for a moment by an indistinct picture of Veronica reading this last sentence.
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