The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart. Pity you aren’t under my command. ’ Miss Froxfield intervened quickly as her betrothed showed signs of erupting again. “But your hair,” he gasped.
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