Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk.
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