Her heartbeat quickened. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. To fight inertia on the one hand and to study this queer girl on the other. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again.
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