Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. I may as well think. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. ‘You imbecile. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might.
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