Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. You don’t deserve it, but he does. "You will not make it valueless in my eyes," he added, catching her in his arms, and pressing her to his breast. ’ Hilary stared. Sindlesham tried. A creeping numbness invaded her. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. She would be extraordinarily interesting as a metaphysical study. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life.
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