“I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being. “You can keep him at arm’s length. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey XVII. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap. This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it.
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