Manning had shown on previous occasions that he found Ann Veronica interesting and that he wished to interest her. A fever of shame ran through her being. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. Kneebone, are these your French noblemen?" "Don't upbraid me!" rejoined the woollen-draper.
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