This lover of yours—” “He doesn’t know!” cried Ann Veronica. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. ‘You think I am like that Valade? No, a thousand times.
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