Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. "I know my life is valuable to you, or you would not spare it. Got the tickets? Yes, but then—you said you borrowed?” “I did, too,” said Ann Veronica. Norris says she's dying. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them.
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