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C. " "You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. Ann Veronica said she didn’t care. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. No one would ever know what happened to him. Wouldn't take my advice. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. The expression pervading the countenance of the one was vulgarity; of the other, that which is rarely found, except in persons of high birth. I had rather have trouble and hardship like that than be taken care of by others. She did not answer him, as she did not know what to say. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. It's all your fault, you shaking coward! and, but that I feel sure you'll swing for your carelessness, I'd throw you into the well, too. I can be that man, the one I know you want. "Mr.
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