“Damn!” said Ann Veronica to herself, rousing herself for a conflict. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. “You yourself have decided that—apart from the question of Annabel. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you.
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