Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. Ann Veronica watched her face, vaguely sympathizing with her, vaguely disliking her physical insufficiency and her convulsive movements, and the fine eyebrows were knit with a faint perplexity. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. “My charm of manner, I suppose. I’m not a lovesick boy.
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