It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. It was easy to recognize, the one thing that had stayed the same over the years. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that she was not quite so sure.
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