But she was not there. There you will be, in an inner temple. You forget that every one is going to the ‘Unusual’ to see her. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. They had asked her to come to the first of the two great annual Fadden Dances, the October one, and Ann Veronica had accepted with enthusiasm.
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