“We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. Kneebone—she was too well acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her distraction. I must go to-night, or I shall never behold him again. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know.
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