Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. Spurling, you're a witness to the bet.
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