And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug.
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