“Until you marry, Vee,” said Hetty. And Pottiswick, of course. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. Marry, come up! I'll see who's to be obeyed. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. ‘But a spy I am not. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth.
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