Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. “My friends,” she said, “my dear friends, I am going to make the same answer to all of you—and that is perhaps you will say no answer at all. 1. Perhaps he truly meant it – perhaps there was a force within him that could withstand the hardships of existing past a mortal lifetime. That won’t involve references, as a bank account would—and all that sort of thing. Englishmen also certainly. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do.
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