But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. “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. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. .
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