"Let us fly from this frightful place. She blew on the hand cannon and grabbed her bag of gunpowder. He unhooked it from the front clasp. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. “Always has been,” said Ogilvy. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. “Think of what Lady Palsworthy will say! Think of what”—So-and-so —“will say! What are we to tell people? “Besides, what am I to tell your father?” At first it had not been at all clear to Ann Veronica that she would refuse to return home; she had had some dream of a capitulation that should leave her an enlarged and defined freedom, but as her aunt put this aspect and that of her flight to her, as she wandered illogically and inconsistently from one urgent consideration to another, as she mingled assurances and aspects and emotions, it became clearer and clearer to the girl that there could be little or no change in the position of things if she returned. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. The girl’s gaze met his in interested inquiry.
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