He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. You must wait till supper's over. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. If Mr. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance.
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