Not like my father. Don't strip me quite. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious.
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