“Damn!” said Ann Veronica to herself, rousing herself for a conflict. The boy was bright and inquisitive as he was subtle. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage. She shook them off of one foot. “I’m not going to kill you, John. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. How long he continued thus he scarcely knew; but just before dawn, he managed to regain his legs, and, crawling up a bank, perceived he was within a quarter of a mile of Tottenham.
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