She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. They would arrest him for the French spy they had thought her at first. She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite. Not then. “Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa.
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