Even her debt to him was a triviality now. “I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. It would be the wrappered world almost at its best. But her heart kept on sinking. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. .
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