At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. With people of that sort all sorts of things may happen. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. Before her was a great Gothic portal.
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