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“Let me think,” said Ann Veronica. That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. It was too good to be true. She kicked him in the shin, trying to knock him off his feet. “What a hypocrite you are.
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