And such skirts as Ann Veronica had had when she entered the valley of Saas were safely packed away in the hotel, and she wore a leather belt and loose knickerbockers and puttees—a costume that suited the fine, long lines of her limbs far better than any feminine walking-dress could do. Don’t you care for Nigel at all?” Anna was silent for a moment or two. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Your aunt liked the pheasant. “Sometimes it is not bad. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me.
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