“But, my dear!” said Ann Veronica’s aunt. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. "My friend here," said McClintock, "tells me you are looking for a job. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. He would have to make sure of her silence. I don’t know. Where I am in error, you can set me right.
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