She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. There is something in prayer; not that there may be any noticeable result, any definite answer; but no human being can offer an honest prayer to God without gaining immeasurably in courage, in fortitude, in resignation, and that alone is worth the effort. “I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. Sister’s got married to that bounder Ferringhall. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. But all those empty years!… My heart was hot. But "fine" is the word. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. Wait a second. ” She closed her mouth. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it.
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