Winifred instantly picked it up. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. My lads," he continued, addressing the partners; "when you've finished this job give that fellow a fresh set of darbies. She had refused to eat human beings when she had first learned her fate. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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