“Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. You don’t understand the fix I am in. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. She was not a Christian woman. He seemed wholly insensible to the rain, though it presently descended in torrents, and continued his search as ardently as before.
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