"Thus," replied the prize-fighter. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it. To her horror she realized that she had nearly forgotten how to kiss after a years-long dry spell, and she could detect drool on her own chin and John’s cheek. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. Ann Veronica looked up at him and found him regarding her with eyes that were almost woebegone, and into which, indeed, he was trying to throw much more expression than they could carry. Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her.
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