“My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. But when she spoke her lips quivered, and they came. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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