Ann Veronica brought her luggage in a cab from the hotel; she tipped the hotel porter sixpence and overpaid the cabman eighteenpence, unpacked some of her books and possessions, and so made the room a little homelike, and then sat down in a by no means uncomfortable arm-chair before the fire. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. "Now, Jack," cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, "you are my friend again. The Night-Cellar XVIII. ‘She wormed it out of me, the little fiend. I don’t half disagree with you, Vee, really; only thing is, I don’t see how you’re going to pull it off.
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