Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. The party resolved itself for Ann Veronica into a game in which she manoeuvred unostentatiously and finally unsuccessfully to avoid talking alone with this gentleman. Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it. He never asked questions; he never addressed his companions; and frequently he took off his cap and wiped his forehead. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. “I wish you didn’t. ‘And so also have I.
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