‘Therefore she cannot be the daughter of Suzanne Valade. 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 did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely. One comes at last to the step from dreams to reality. Brendon,” she said, “if I could ask for advice, or borrow money from any one, I would from you—there! But I cannot. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. Neither you nor your mother shall escape me.
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