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“Your little flag of pride must flutter down with the rest of them, Ann Veronica. Only think how compromising. ” Her voice trembled with suppressed passion. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. The pavement had been hastily picked up, and heaped across the end of the street, upon which planks, barrels, and other barricades, were laid. He then spoke with a certain fatherly kindliness of the past. "Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. 1. She fled.
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