If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. I’ve never wanted to get away so much. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. Only a book detective could dope this out. “I think I can tell you something which may be very good news for you presently.
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