“I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress. In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. “John, don’t!” she cried. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. And the jailers also retired.
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