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. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not.
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