Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. I won’t tolerate any foreign tongue in this house, least of all that confounded French. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. So I set out to find you, even if it cost ten times sixteen thousand.
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