“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. “My arrival appears to be opportune,” he said stiffly. She stood face to face with him, and his voice cut across her speech and made her stop abruptly.
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