“My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. “We can,” he said, “and we will. In the evening, a band of village musicians, accompanied by most of the young inhabitants of Willesden, strolled out to Dollis Hill, where they formed a rustic concert under the great elm before the door. We are not animals.
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