But she was relentless. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. No umbrella either, the sky was delightfully overcast. Ann Veronica pushed aside a tea-cup and the vestiges of her strawberries and cream, and put her elbows before her on the table. Her back stiffened. To Capes he was almost deferential, and she had never seen him deferential in the old time, never. “That he should be in the same world with me!” said Ann Veronica, reduced to reading the list of good things the British Tea-Table Company had priced for its patrons. . Let me bind you up, and then you can attend to her. She hated to leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. It was locked.
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