The hansom sped through the crowded streets. This lady was singularly lucky in her matrimonial connections. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown 'em all like a litter o' puppies. ” “I never felt so absolutely right,” said Ann Veronica. Will you marry me?” Anna looked at him in blank amazement.
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