The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. “Mr. Only I do not care to write about anything else. ” “It gives in a nutshell the miracle of art and the imagination. “I don’t want you to do it, to go on talking to me. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes.
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