They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. "If you'll tell me where to look for these things, and I do find them, I'll set you free. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. “Go to London,” said Ann Veronica.
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