Ann Veronica readjusted her chin on her hand. She peered into the darkness. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. Then she called a hansom and drove home.
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