“Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. Every day in the year you will witness such scenes. Her aunt was a long time before she answered. The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. He insisted once again on opening the car door for her. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. Drowning, her brain dizzy, Melusine clung to the source of the flooding warmth, her hands, no longer forcibly held, moving without will about the firm back.
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