At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Old Bedlam 291 IX. His lips parted in a rare smile. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. ‘Parbleu, you waste time. “I don’t care what any one thinks,” said Ann Veronica.
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