Do you mean to tell me you didn’t understand why I wanted you to come here?” “Not a bit of it,” said Ann Veronica stoutly. Flinging her back against it, she put her hands out, barring his way. Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from it. Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand. Tender with the sick, firm with the strong, fearless, with a body that had the resistance of iron, there was nothing of the hypocrite in him. But was it Faith? That is what she was this day going to find out. “I will take a carriage,” she said, “and fetch my things.
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