They had asked her to come to the first of the two great annual Fadden Dances, the October one, and Ann Veronica had accepted with enthusiasm. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. ‘Desist, you little devil,’ he growled in her ear. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. "Where am I?" asked Spurlock.
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