I suppose I ought to have been a man. Ann Veronica’s universe, which had never been altogether so respectful to her as she could have wished, gave a shout and whirled head over heels. You are not my husband. After debating with himself whether he should further seek an interview, which, though, now in his power, was so sedulously shunned by the other party, he decided in the negative; and contenting himself with writing upon a slip of paper the hasty words,—"You are known by the villagers,—be upon your guard,"—he gave it to the ostler, with instructions to deliver it instantly to the owner of the horse he pointed out, and pursued his course. I WAS talking to him before I saw his name on the card beside the row of microscopes. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. I—In fact, I dislike him extremely. Gravely he placed them in his aunt's hand. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel.
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