. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. ‘She didn’t behave in the least like an émigré, if these people are anything to go by. Not all of us, but some of us. "Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. .
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