The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. Thank him, not me, man. “It’s my fault. He could not make good his hold.
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