In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. Lucy's ears were singing. The chance had gone. He would condemn her to the vengeance of the mob all for refusing to marry him. Once a week, every Saturday, they had a little gathering from nine till the small hours, just talk and perhaps reading aloud and fruitarian refreshments—chestnut sandwiches buttered with nut tose, and so forth—and lemonade and unfermented wine; and to one of these symposia Miss Miniver after a good deal of preliminary solicitude, conducted Ann Veronica. "Why do you ask?" rejoined the other haughtily. I knew it.
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