"My father!" she whispered. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. She wants to be free—she wants to be legally and economically free, so as not to be subject to the wrong man; but only God, who made the world, can alter things to prevent her being slave to the right one. Great vistas of history opened, and she and her aunt were near reverting to the primitive and passionate and entirely indecorous arboreal—were swinging from branches by the arms, and really going on quite dreadfully—when their arrival at the Palsworthys’ happily checked this play of fancy, and brought Ann Veronica back to the exigencies of the wrappered life again. The note-passer lagged behind with her. She felt she must fly before it and could no longer do so. Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee.
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