CHAPTER VIII. It’s a damned hard thing to do. Ennison reeled, and almost fell. I'm not noble; so my honourable ancestors will not turn over in their graves. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. ’ ‘Ha! You’re Catholic, too, damn his eyes,’ growled the general. The stipendiary would have done it all very differently. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt.
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