“I say!” he said, without any movement. “I wrote it for you. In the corner of the room were two hockey-sticks and a tennis-racket, and upon the walls Ann Veronica, by means of autotypes, had indicated her proclivities in art. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. I want to enrich it with hangings and gladden it with verses. Her eyes quizzed the major.
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