"But what does he mean by calling you a wanton? —you, my wife?" Enschede's hand slipped from his daughter's shoulder. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs.
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