“Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Mr. His statement was treated with derision.
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