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“My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. If he could keep it up—style and calibre of imagination—within a year the name of Taber would become widely known. I shall barely be in time for the theatre. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. “By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply. We’ll have some buttered toast. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. Suddenly she became aware of the fact that he had brought no lunch.
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