Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. ” “The truth,” she murmured, with her eyes fixed upon him. She wondered why he was so distinctive, so unlike other men, and it never occurred to her for some time that this might be because she was falling in love with him. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica.
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