How do you like the story?” “Go on,” said Ann Veronica, a little hoarsely, “tell me all of it. To be ill and helpless. It is very bad. It was that somebody had cheated you. But they found him on the veranda when they returned from McClintock's that evening. “I shot him. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not.
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