She drew it out with shaking fingers. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. He had barely said, \"Anytime,\" before she shut the door rather rudely in his face. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged.
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