Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. She pushed him gently on the chest. I wouldn't touch the stuff for all the pearls in India. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. ‘Come, cry a truce.
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