The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. She had lost it. “I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. By this time Capes’ hair had bleached nearly white, and his skin had become a skin of red copper shot with gold. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens.
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