It’s odd, but nothing but cliche seems to meet this case. “Have you much ability?” asked Ann Veronica. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. Nobody who cared. Civil engineering. The storm burst upon them in its fury. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway.
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