He has often told me that if he could play sober, he would go to America and reap a fortune. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. Be so good as to come this way. “Yes,” he said, “I shall come. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice.
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