Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. They turned the last corner, and almost immediately a man who had been standing there turned and struck Ennison a violent blow on the cheek. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. “Dear friend,” she said, “remember that you are speaking to one who has failed in the only serious object which she has ever sought to accomplish. Life seemed a very brave and glorious enterprise to Ann Veronica that day.
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