. . She remained for a few moments standing as though listening to his retreating footsteps. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. Not fit to be dust on your boots. ” For some creditable moments in her life Ann Veronica was utterly disgusted with herself; she was wrung with a passionate and belated desire to move gently, to speak softly and ambiguously—to be, in effect, prim. Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered them everywhere. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts.
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