It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. “You had no right—” panted Ann Veronica. ’ As if to bear her out, the door opened at this precise moment to admit Saling, who barely announced Captain Roding before the man himself strode into the room. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. “My husband knows all. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically.
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