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He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ protested Hilary angrily. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. “I really had not thought about it at all,” Anna answered smiling. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. His father and mother were a lawyer and a doctor, respectively.
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