CHAPTER XIV Ruth lost the point entirely. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. Her eye met Miss Stanley’s understandingly, and she was if anything a trifle more affectionate in her greeting to Ann Veronica. " "It's no use going to bed," answered Rachel. Winter came at the manor. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. All the rest of our lives would be together then, Ann Veronica. I’ve never seen her quite so sure of herself. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. I had never dreamed of such a friend as you. The door to the library burst open. “I say, Vee. . ” “Do you think it is really worth while?” Lady Lescelles asked gently. Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion.
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