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“To your room!” Michelle cowered, her face flushed with anger. “Who is the tenant of these rooms?” he inquired. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. Do you know, Ann Veronica, it is all a lie about your birth certificate; a forgery—and fooling at that. 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.
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