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Still, it was true about men. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. There was one letter. "But, I own, I think it is like. " CHAPTER XIII. The other lay unconscious in a heap.
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