“I’m just off, aunt,” said Ann Veronica. "Mr. “Are you with us?” said the tired woman. “I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. Certain phases of irony always caused him to chuckle audibly. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout.
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