As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. Her aunt returned before the packing was done, and Ann Veronica lunched with an uneasy sense of bag and hold-all packed up-stairs and inadequately hidden from chance intruders by the valance of the bed. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked.
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