“Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. ” She laughed. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief.
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