"And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. Good night. We dine at seven-thirty. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. Like a petulant child he snapped.
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