He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. “You did not wish to see him particularly this evening, then?” Anna hesitated. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. At the same time she was wildly exultant at the resolution she had taken, the end she had made to her blunder.
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