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“Do you believe me now?” She asked. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. ” “But how?” “I poured him out some port wine, and I said—let me see—oh, ‘You are going to be a grandfather!’” “Yes. The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. ‘But I have told you. .
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