I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. “Oh, Ann Veronica!” he cried, “I cannot let you go like this! You don’t understand. What was the fellow about? Was he being imposed upon? He watched as the man Valade turned back, spreading his hands in the French way. You cannot refuse me this.
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