This made the eleventh. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. In the afternoon my brain and fingers leap to their work because you have been with me. Come. It cuts. I just want him, and no one else will do.
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