‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. Smith's melody had subsided. “MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. Ain’t enough as I’ve got militiamen quartered on me this se’ennight, lazing about all day, eating me out of house and home and drinking my liquor into the bargain. "There he is!" "I fear not," said her father, with a doubtful shake of the head. “NOW!” said Ann Veronica. Like the flaws of an old marble. I sha’n’t care a rap if we can never marry. —'How so?' says I.
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