“I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. Remote little Ann Veronica! She would never know the heart of that child again! That child had loved fairy princes with velvet suits and golden locks, and she was in love with a real man named Capes, with little gleams of gold on his cheek and a pleasant voice and firm and shapely hands. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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