Do help me, Lady Ferringhall. The opiate has done its duty. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. “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. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. If you were ten years younger, you'd have me wondering. His eyes were closed.
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