Ann Veronica had a number of fragmentary impressions of Alice strangely transfigured in bridal raiment. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. “I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. . . I’ve got to have you, and by God I will.
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