The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. “Veronica!” cried Miss Stanley, warningly, and, “Peter!” For a moment they seemed on the verge of an altogether desperate scuffle. Shortly a man descended laboriously. He saw that his words were falling upon dull ears. I know very well Gerald has been fishing for information about that girl, and I am determined to find out what he knows.
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