The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. It is abominable—” “What is the use of keeping up this note of indignation, Ann Veronica? Here I am! I am your lover, burning for you. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. \" She said, looking beside him at a taller boy who appeared to be bored. The wish was vain: and, endeavouring to banish every earthly thought, he addressed himself deeply and sincerely to prayer. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him.
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