“Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. ” Ennison took the document, tore it half in two without looking at it, and flung it back in Hill’s face. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. “Dear me! I wonder what I ought to do. I should like to have had you forgive me.
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