“But, my dear!” said Ann Veronica’s aunt. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to nothing of her story. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb.
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