Telling the porter that he would attend to the house himself, he bade him go in search of Jack Sheppard. “Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. “You must arrest me!” she gasped, breathlessly, insisting insanely on a point already carried; “you shall!” The police-station at the end seemed to Ann Veronica like a refuge from unnamable disgraces.
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