“My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. She helped herself to the remainder of the slightly congealed bacon, and reverted to the problem of getting her luggage out of the house. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil.
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