The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. "She was mine before you ever saw her. The psychic vibration of him thickened the air of the room as if he were already inside. Though Gerald must suppose it was inevitable she should eventually come here. I can’t imagine what possessed you, Veronica. He was so seldom wrong. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. She mentally resolved to do her best to avoid personal encounters with him in that instant. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. ‘Still, the comtesse has them well in hand. ‘Ask him.
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