She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. She put her hand in his to be squeezed. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. You understand that term?” Ann Veronica smiled faintly. Still it was possible, and the difficulty was only a fresh incitement. So that as she saw him she remarked to herself very faintly but definitely, “Oh, golly!” and set up a campaign of avoidance that Mr.
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