Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. But, as soon as he perceived who it was, he roused himself, and glared fiercely at the intruder from under his bent brows. “MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London.
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