It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. 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. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. But his daughter might well have a claim. She heard him come in; the light burned on. I'll knock off at tea.
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