“I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. His room was last at the end of one winding corner. 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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