Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. But there was something in his face at once stupid and invincible that told her he would go on forcing himself upon her, that he would esteem speech with her a great point gained.
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