. \" They talked until midnight most nights. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. . \"Sorry. ” Ann Veronica could have wept with vexation. It is not at all comme il faut. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies.
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