Wily little devil she is. ‘Just what I was going to tell you, miss. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. But if we had gone under—!” They regarded one another silently, and Ann Veronica had one of her penetrating flashes. Nice, of course. ‘You see, I had another reason for visiting your grandfather. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. She assumed with a kind of mesmeric force all the propositions that Ann Veronica wanted her to define.
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