“I suppose a girl MUST be underpaid and sweated,” said Ann Veronica. The novel danger of the situation enthralled him. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. I think too much about myself.
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