She despises me, I suppose. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. Amid this varied throng,—varied in appearance, but alike in character,—one object alone, we have said, rivetted Mrs. Fifty sent home. She met him by the dugout after the game. I met you here as Lady Ferringhall. And at last Ann Veronica and Miss Miniver came down the dark staircase and out into the foggy spaces of the London squares, and crossed Russell Square, Woburn Square, Gordon Square, making an oblique route to Ann Veronica’s lodging. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. Here would be a woman perfectly unrecognizable, strong, ruthless but just.
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