Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. I came here to beg you not to sign that contract. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice. But, by Jove! you are fierce! You are like those Roman women who carry stilettos in their hair. But I liked to say it. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. —Though if my name should become as famous as theirs, it wouldn't much matter. Then he got up and left her. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.
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