The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. She guessed Jack was having trouble finding the right piece of carving. Fate! You are so frank so splendid! “I’m taking this calmly now,” he said, almost as if he apologized, “because I’m a little stunned. "Who are you?" inquired Mrs.
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