” For the moment her aunt could not think of any reply to this counterstroke, and Ann Veronica followed up her advantage by a sudden inquiry about her abandoned boots. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. She was sorry to find Ramage a little disposed to be melancholy. My name is Annabel, not Anna.
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