‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. This man was apparently not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. All she needed to do was to have a body. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. You must wait till supper's over.
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