“MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. You are all that I am or hope to be—the celestial atom God put into me at the beginning. I believe I am getting impudent. With an open hand, he slapped her face. She pulled, he rose to his feet. ‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be.
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