And yet she knew it was not fair to call her a foolish girl. But—It’s just this: who was to be hurt?” “I wish no one had to be hurt,” said Ann Veronica. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. A queer nut.
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