Ann Veronica glanced at the mirror to discover a flushed and dishevelled disorder. "How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell. “It’s a new phase in the life history,” he remarked. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. 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.
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