Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one. The telegram reminded Ann Veronica that she had no place for interviews except her bed-sitting-room, and she sought her landlady and negotiated hastily for the use of the ground floor parlor, which very fortunately was vacant. Let us part in peace. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. ‘And so you sneak back,’ she threw at him, ‘like the jackal that you are. " "Lord!—think of having sharks for neighbours? Every morning I'll take a dip into the lagoon. Mrs. The weed was all right. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly.
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