‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. He had removed his silk hat, and now sat looking at Ann Veronica over an untouched cup of tea; he sat gloating upon her, trying to catch her eye. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. He is the one who has said that she must go to the convent. I warned her not to say a word, for it would mean the death of everyone in the Palazzo, including you.
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