C. . Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. You’re just a particular being with nothing else in the world to class with you. So, adroitly and patiently, he pulled Ruth apart; that is, he plucked forth a little secret here, another there, until he had quite a substantial array. "Your name is Spurlock?" "It is. ’ ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’ ‘Hardly. All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her. “We can be alone?” She inquired. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. Meanwhile, she was spirited away from John and bombarded by half-familiar people who attempted to chat with her above the roar of the crowd.
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