“You see,” said Ann Veronica, with the air of one who shares a difficulty, “I’ve promised to go. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. But it was the form of her ruling determination; it was the only form that she ever allowed to see daylight. Here it is. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. Do not remain with me. I know he is dead.
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