"I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. “Why could you not confide in us?” “Do what?” said Ann Veronica. This—all this swamps them.
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