She picked up the hand cannon. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. “Suppose, for example, I go to this dance?” “You won’t. She can be of use to me yet. Every one turned to her in astonishment. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally.
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