You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. If she’s over, he probably knows all about it. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. The house had in fact been converted into a convent, but the fact could not be advertised, not even in the Catholic enclave that existed in this part of town.
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