"It is droll," he said. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. ‘Always he is busy about my affairs.
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