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But, say we're friends. She took it for granted Ann Veronica wore stays—mild stays, perhaps, but stays, and thought no more of the matter. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. “Do you want to ruin me? I shall walk back. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. She has power over men’s fates in more ways than one. “Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. My reply to all of them has been the same. Probably a sick man's whim.
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