There was no one stirring in the flats. The spinsters had purchased one grass-linen tablecloth; the girl and the young man had purchased nothing. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. “Now, Veronica,” he pleaded, “Veronica, this is most unreasonable. But one day he came to me. You wanted to play a lone hand.
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