Of the vast mass of these impressions Ann Veronica could make nothing at the time; there they were—Fact! She stored them away in a mind naturally retentive, as a squirrel stores away nuts, for further digestion. She gloried in it: he needed her. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open.
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