Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Miss Stanley, it was manifest, had given him Ann Veronica’s address. There she would wander about in the kindly darkness. I may want you. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave.
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