It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. The party resolved itself for Ann Veronica into a game in which she manoeuvred unostentatiously and finally unsuccessfully to avoid talking alone with this gentleman. Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. The occasion of all this confusion and dismay, meanwhile, remained perfectly motionless; his figure erect, and with somewhat of dignity in his demeanour. Jeremiah Jackson and Mr. She knew it. Here was not the individual against whom she had been warned.
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