“I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. Your father has forbidden you to go!’” “Well?” “She said, ‘I hate being horrid to you and father, but I feel it my duty to go to that ball!’” “Felt it her duty!” “‘Very well,’ I said, ‘then I wash my hands of the whole business. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He crossed back to Roding and said low-voiced. Beethoven; he’s the best of them. “How are you feeling?” She asked with grave concern in her voice.
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