But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. Deep silences came between them. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. Maggot, whose nerves were more firmly strung, she contented herself with waving her hand affectionately to her lover, and encouraging him by her gestures. “I don’t care what any one thinks,” said Ann Veronica. Then she was out of the door and running, fast. I may as well think. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher. She responded with an unfaltering appearance of insensibility, and never as a young and beautiful woman conscious of sex; always in the character of an intelligent girl student.
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