Whenever she came upon the obliterated word and paused, her father would say: "Faith. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. Not a word passed between them. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory.
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