Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. “I shall never marry,” said Ann Veronica, resolutely; “I’m not the sort. But the Ramage affair needed clearing up, of course; it was a flaw upon that project. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. Cursed him for his devotion that had made him come back for her, only to get himself shot by the fiendish Gosse. We'll have some fun down there at my place, Spurlock; but we'll probably bore your wife to death. ” She thanked him with one of her shy little glances.
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