1. “You cowards!” said Ann Veronica, “put her down!” and tore herself from a detaining hand and battered with her fists upon the big red ear and blue shoulder of the policeman who held the little old lady. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. There haven't been so many ladies in the Lodge since the days of Claude Du Val, the gentleman highwayman; and they all declare it'll break their hearts if he's scragged. I am on my way to an aunt who lives in Hartford, Connecticut.
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