“Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. "There's a young woman. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. "Well, it's a good story. “I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. You must tell me what it all means.
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