What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. The telegram reminded Ann Veronica that she had no place for interviews except her bed-sitting-room, and she sought her landlady and negotiated hastily for the use of the ground floor parlor, which very fortunately was vacant. I was—I was a corespondent. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat.
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