With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. It would have been a crisis anyhow, but it was complicated in Ann Veronica’s mind by the fact that a letter lay on the breakfast-table from Mr. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress.
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