Ann Veronica was excited and puzzled, with a sense of a strange and disconcerting new light breaking over her relations with Ramage. Mr. Your aunt liked the pheasant. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought.
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