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” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. ‘Merci, dieu. But I’d have done it without, though it weren’t my place. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. One learns to sit up. ‘And then vanished into thin air,’ rejoined Hilary on a sardonic note. It depresses one, you know.
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