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’ ‘Never mind the comtesse,’ adjured Prudence. That is how I learned that there were such things as novels. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. It was his tall stance and his pale skin that drew him out of the crowd. For a time she furnished the flat.
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