Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder. Wood fared still worse. Spurlock began to munch his water-chestnuts. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. But the morning brought courage again, and those first intimations of horror vanished completely from her mind. John knew better.
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