“It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. ” She gestured to an abandoned farmhouse down a long stretch of icy dirt road. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “You are absurd,” she declared. Manning would on no account do, though he was tall and dark and handsome and kind, and thirty-five and adequately prosperous, and all that a husband should be.
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