It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor. This was good. It can wait a bit longer. Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. But I trusted to that ring of yours. I don’t think I shall ever care for this bonnet again. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child.
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