The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr. Here's Winny always urging you to go and visit Mrs. She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel’s, and she had no further qualms. Lucy knocked again. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent.
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