“I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress. The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine.
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