The pieces fell to the ground in a little white shower. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket. If we were set upon I could not defend you. "I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live. Oh, it was very bad. Ann Veronica ignored her friend’s confusion.
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