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” “Not coming home!” “No!” And, in spite of her resolve to be a Person, Ann Veronica began to weep with terror at herself. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said. "Heaven be praised she knows me at last.
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