He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Yet through these talks, these meetings and conferences, these movements and efforts, Ann Veronica, for all that she went with her friend, and at times applauded with her enthusiastically, yet went nevertheless with eyes that grew more and more puzzled, and fine eyebrows more and more disposed to knit. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. Wouldn't take my advice. ‘Well said, my dear.
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