His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. Miss Stanley walked round the garden thinking, and presently house and garden reverberated to Ann Veronica’s slamming of the front door. “It’s the spring,” he said. There sprang from that a vague hope that perhaps she might extort a capitulation from her father by a threat to seek that position, and then with overwhelming clearness it came to her that whatever happened she would never be able to tell her father about her debt.
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