She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. She had the same sharp nose—which, indeed, only Ann Veronica, of all the family, had escaped. “You will pardon me, sir,” he said in a subdued tone, “but I think that you have forgotten to look at your engagement book. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. “I came directly I was disengaged,” Anna answered. That's the only fault I know of. If I had never met anything of you at all but a scrap of your skin binding a book, Ann Veronica, I know I would have kept that somewhere near to me.
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