CHAPTER VIII. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Of the vast mass of these impressions Ann Veronica could make nothing at the time; there they were—Fact! She stored them away in a mind naturally retentive, as a squirrel stores away nuts, for further digestion. And then if some day Capes wanted her—saw fit to alter his views upon friendship.
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