His tone was rough, almost threatening. Running his hand hastily over it, he was startled to find it one complicated mass of bolts and bars. “You ass and imbecile, Ann Veronica! You female cad! Cad! Cad!. I do not believe that you will marry David Courtlaw. ” She stopped buttoning her glove, and looked at him. Where's the dining room? And, say, can I have some eggs? This jam-tea breakfast gets my goat. How did you like Tristan?” Ann Veronica paused the fraction of a second before her reply came. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him.
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