Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. “They might do you good,” she remarked. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. Ann Veronica stared at his foolish, propitiatory smile, his hungry gaze, through one moment of amazement, then stepped aside and went on her way with a quickened step. “Very likely. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. ‘That was one of my own clever stories.
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