Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. . I can’t love you. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to.
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