I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. ” Ann Veronica meditated over that phrase. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. net Transcribers Note: Obvious typesetter errors from the original corrected in this etext.
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