He had no use for Ann Veronica; he had never had a use for her since she had been too old to sit upon his knee. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. “Jacques is wounded and we are arrested by this imbecile of a sergeant. She chuckled. He refused. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. "A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. .
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