She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. “How have you been lately, Lucy? You’ve been such a stranger. Ann Veronica, with a sigh at the cost of hospitality, made a hasty negotiation for an extra tea and for a fire in the groundfloor apartment, and preened herself carefully for the interview. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely.
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