Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. Trodger laid down their muskets and turned on them. Hadn’t the stomach to admit the truth, had he? I’ll lay any money he labelled you with some foul French name as well. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. He stood still, almost breathless. Voilà tout. ” “I am not sure whether I feel inclined to scold or thank you,” she declared. “You had no right—” panted Ann Veronica.
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