‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. “His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. Be this as it may, though a Catholic, he died a friend to the Protestant succession.
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