Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. Except for one memorable school excursion to Paris, Ann Veronica had never yet been outside England. I have no intention of arresting you. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised.
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