Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee.
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