’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. “Let me help you,” he begged. Wood, was examined. Gladstone would have to a carelessly displayed interior on a dissecting-room table. 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. They had both been unsuccessful. ’ ‘Well, don’t blame me if you get your head blown off. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash.
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