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Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. He shrugged and, to Gerald’s relief, made to leave at last. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. Foolish compliments were tossed about like confetti. “If it’s about that dance project,” he said, “it’s no good, Veronica. ” “Very well.
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