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He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. ” “I did not come,” she faltered. He'll mend, I hope. That I should be challenged by you of all people. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. "Another moment, and it'll be too late.
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