“A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. Lucy turned and faced the strawberry blonde behind her, gesturing rapidly with a folded origami triangle, evidently the newest form of note. Each wing had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome, surmounted by a gilded ball and vane. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. .
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