She thought of her costume in some detail and with considerable satisfaction, and particularly of a very jolly property dagger with large glass jewels in the handle, that reposed in a drawer in her room. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. It is what I have wanted, what I have meant all along. We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. If I am to die in the attempt, then so be it. And nowhere could I obtain the slightest information. “You are absurd,” she declared. Then a third secretarial opening occurred and renewed her hopes again: a position as amanuensis—with which some of the lighter duties of a nurse were combined— to an infirm gentleman of means living at Twickenham, and engaged upon a great literary research to prove that the “Faery Queen” was really a treatise upon molecular chemistry written in a peculiar and picturesquely handled cipher.
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