He could scarcely blame her. Let us stay the night here. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. “You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said. “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.
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