She resumed her on guard position, and glaring steadily at him, waited again. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. A queer nut. Ann Veronica looked bright and a little elated, and she disregarded her father’s invitation to be seated. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. She forced herself not to think of John.
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