Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. Wait a little; rest. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine.
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