We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. Ann Veronica watched her face, vaguely sympathizing with her, vaguely disliking her physical insufficiency and her convulsive movements, and the fine eyebrows were knit with a faint perplexity.
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